


Ailes de la Liberté

by mayalinified



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - World War II, Anal Sex, Closeted Character, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Public Masturbation, Rimming, Sexual Tension Like Nothing Else I've Ever Written, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:32:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 85,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayalinified/pseuds/mayalinified
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1942 and the Nazi occupation in France has led to the growing force of the French Résistance. Erwin Smith, Austrian army deserter, works among these soldiers for freedom. They're a collection of the bravest, the martyrs, the fools, the lost, the lonely, and those who have no other choice but to take up arms against the Nazi threat. On their nights of temporary freedom, where they relinquish their self-appointed duties to the liberation of the French state, they waste their hours with drink and entertainment at the Ailes de la Liberté, a cabaret and club. It is there that Erwin Smith meets Rivaille, the sharp-tongued, seductive, mysterious star of the show, who Erwin finds himself too curious to know</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enchanté

**Author's Note:**

> *Historical Fiction*
> 
> I'm taking some liberties as far as the true History of the French occupation. But hey who could turn down French cabaret dancer Levi for the sake a few changes to the timeline of World War II here and there?
> 
> There's going to be a great deal of French and anything that is not translated in the text will be translated at the end of each chapter. Along with any other references to the true History of the Nazi occupation in France and real supporters of the French Résistance.
> 
> And finally a warning that this will have a decent number of character deaths. But I mean we're SnK fans, character death is our middle name.

His mother was Austrian and long since dead from influenza. But, before she dies when he is four, she graciously bestows her father’s name onto him - he was her only son and only child. _Erwin_. It’s pronounced Irvin in his native tongue and once an Irish woman tells him that it means “white” in her language. He rarely allows for the memory of that name to linger. He’s been Erwin for six years now. Not Irvin, not Herr Smith, and not Corporal Lieutenant, most of all.

There is a touch of an accent in his voice, but at most it’s a barely there cadence of speech and hardly perceptible hiss of the letter “s”. When he drinks he lets the guise of London native slip down until he exposes the long o and the sharp a of his Austrian vowels.

It’s not that most people don’t already assume he’s Austrian, he can hardly hide that much as far as his appearance, and there is always a certain level of distrust when he meets someone new. There’s a measured calculation of how much to reveal of himself and how early on. Austrians, after all, have traveled freely within the German borders since 1938. They handed their government to them. They were seen as an enemy to most people, Nazi supporters.

Erwin Smith was no such thing.

And that is what saves him. That and the treasured gift of the last name Smith from his English father. This affords him some credit, paired along with the flawless English he speaks. The language of his father’s influence and the practice of it he set to as soon as the train passed the border into Switzerland.

- **Janvier 1942** -

“Erwin.”

He’s roused from reverie; a particular morning in winter as a boy is fading behind his words.

“My apologies, Mike. I didn’t even hear you knock,” he says, turning back to face the man in the doorway.  The sound of laughter echoes below; where snow-dusted children are being ushered back indoors from the alley where they play. Mike tilts his head to one side as Erwin shares his gaze between his comrade and the happiness three floors down. He seems to acknowledge Erwin’s curiosity.

“Nana was trying to find you before she left. She called me twice. I said you were here but you never answered your phone for her I suppose,” Mike scolds. He’s alternating his hands over various parts of himself. His narrowly parted hair, the grain of it as it’s slicked to his head, his coat, his hat under his arm. His strangely unkempt beard bristles beneath his fingertips as he scratches at it. Erwin does not move for a moment – from beside the window where last group of small boys are being embraced in their doorways - for the sake of leaving Mike undisturbed in his ministrations. He takes Mike’s strangeness with a fond understanding.

They’d been friends since he’d arrived in Paris six years prior. He went by a different name then. Sometimes if you caught him in just the right way, he would still answer to Michel. When they were in private, sharing glasses of heavy wine over heavier discussion, he would let that name slip just as much as the vowels, lazily from his mouth.

“I was hiding, I suppose. She was quite intent on ensuring that I was actually coming tonight.” Erwin moves away from the window and to the coat rack by the front door. He’s maintained his typical choice in outfit, clean and kempt with a crisp light blue shirt, black pants, brown suspenders, boots. They're poor quality and quite old, but he makes due. The jacket he wears is itchy wool and the coat he slides over it is just as loathsome.

He’s certain that he doesn’t show this discomfort on his face but Mike comments anyway. Perceptive as ever, “It’s best you wear that one, as much as you hate it. It’s freezing out. But where we’re going is warmer and by the time we all leave it’ll be hot.” Erwin ventures a guess that Mike is referring to the alcohol he is used to consuming at this particular club.

It’s popular among their comrades, the _Ailes_ , solely, at first, for Mike’s quiet support of Nanaba’s career. Its full name is _Ailes de la Liberte_ and Erwin finds it the slightest bit ironic that the horde of revolutionaries he associates with attend a cabaret with freedom in the name. But he’s heard Nana sing and she’s very talented, and of course he understands why they are all so supportive.

She dances at the cabaret and from what he hears, puts on an impressive spectacle. And though he finds himself immediately reluctant to take part in the mass pursuit of his comrades to drink themselves into stupor, he feels obligated to attend at least once, for Nana.

“You’ll like it,” Mike manages around the wall of his collar. The wind is blustering through the narrower streets they travel. Like a sieve they guide the two men, until Erwin is disoriented - an unfamiliar feeling for man so utterly devoted to maps of Paris.

“Where on earth are we going, Mike?” he asks, keeping his voice low and level as to not draw any attention to themselves. With clothes like theirs and in such a storm of snow, they looked like nothing more than two men who _belonged_ in Montemarte. But one could never be too careful. The German soldiers were always more than happy to provide a decent questioning and search. He and Mike had falsified documents that had never given them trouble before, but it always did well to practice caution.

“This way,” Mike whispers, and ducks quickly behind a corner. “It’s always had an entrance in a strange place. But it keeps out the unwanted.” Mike’s accent is distinctly Parisian and Erwin finds it relatively easy to understand now in times when he unwittingly mumbles like he this.

There’s nothing of interest in the alleyway that he’s led down. It’s damp with the melt of ice and tinged an uneasy brown with dirty snow. He’s about to ask Mike where exactly they’re going before the brick of the houses seem to pull back like curtains, unfolding and revealing the courtyard.

People don’t seem to mind that it’s snowing; the hug of the building warms them from the blustering cold. Above criss-crossed on strings, in the bushes the dot the court yard, on the elaborate sign above the door, lights are twinkling and illuminating the snow between the cobblestones. Erwin removes his hat in awe, allowing himself a better look. Light flakes of snow catch in his blonde hair.

“This is it?”

Mike has the same expression on his face as he looks on to the scene, “It is indeed, Erwin.” Then he takes in a breath and looks at him. “I do believe Hange has beaten us here.”

Erwin no longer questions the keen sense of smell, but he imagines it’s the cigars that he detects, the ones that Hange ritually chain smokes once the sun has set. They move towards the door and Erwin nods, “I’d believe that.”

They hang their coats at the door and take up residence in a booth near the back of the floor. Erwin assumes it’s the spot they’ve always had, by the way there are already poured drinks there, ashtrays that haven’t been cleaned like the other tables, worn fabric of the booth from Hange’s mirthful habit to drop the ash from her cigars anywhere but the ashtray they belonged in.

Erwin is already warm by the time they sit down and he sets about rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. Hange arrives without warning, speaking over him with a laugh in her voice “You might as well undo the tie, too, Erwin. It only gets warmer as time goes on.”

Hange nestles herself between Erwin and Mike, even though they are sat nearly touching and there is a table in the way of her intrusion. They separate enough for her to get her narrow body between them, as she clambers over their laps into her spot of choosing. She’s wearing men’s trousers and suspenders over a worn red, linen shirt. The outfit is entirely impractical for the weather, but sensible for Hange Zoe. Her first name is one of choice and Erwin supposes her given name might have been Zoe at one time or another.

“You two look nice,” she beams, puffing her cigar before pressing marks of lipstick into both of their cheeks. She speaks rapid French to Mike, which Erwin can mostly understand as her prodding insinuations at him that tonight should be the night he admits his feelings for Nana. Mike blushes and goes quiet before taking one of the drinks from the table and gulping it down so quickly that Erwin slightly impressed.

“You’ll like it here, Erwin,” she says. “We French do things much differently than they do in Austria.”

“Oh Mike and I had been to the cabaret back before all this,” his blue gaze goes to his friend, who is more than occupied with keeping himself out of the spotlight. “And yes, I’d gone to them in Austria but it’s been a long time since all that, I’m sure that I hardly remember them anyway,” Erwin lies. He has vivid memories of floating into the cabarets and night shows of Vienna. Sometimes he would still don his uniform to coax the dancers over to him and his fellows.

“Ah,” she considers. “Perhaps for the best then. A fresh new beginning by looking at the ladies on this stage, it could create a habit again, eh Mike?”

Mike answers with a silent nod and then throws Erwin a glance. He and Hange have always had the rapport of an older sister and younger brother. They’ve only know each other as long as the occupation. Where all three met in the basement of a secret printing press and she offered to her services of to their mad fancies of sabotage and espionage.

“When does Nana go on?” Erwin saves; turning Hange’s delicate of attention span over to his favor.

“She’s second to last,” Hange smiles. “So you’ve got to stay until then.” She reaches out from the cloud of sweet cigar smoke that shrouds her and pushes one of the glasses towards him. He glances down, sniffing it before picking it up and drinking it suspiciously.

“Where on earth did they find Brandy this well-made?” It warms his stomach and he smiles excitedly at the burn of his tongue. He turns and picks up the bottle they’ve left on the table and inspects it enthusiastically.

“We don’t question their methods,” Mike says simply. He seems happy and Erwin suspects it’s because he’s now smiling. They share a strange friendship where Mike has the habit of taking on the subtle emotions Erwin provides him. When he shows them, that is.

New arrivals trickle in slowly. Men and women alike, young and old. Erwin recognizes many of them from clandestine meetings, printing rooms, or even some by their voices that he recalls from fuzzy radio broadcasts. They are predominantly French, but there are other expatriates like he is and their accents stand out like punctuations to the dull roar of French merrymaking.

As more arrive to their table, the conversation becomes much the same. Erwin knows enough French to get by, but when the conversation becomes loose and sloppy with warm brandy soaked tongues he loses interest.

Instead he turns his attention to the show, which starts with an opening number that quiets most of the crowd. His own table continues to speak, but the sound of the piano, the drums, horns and strings manage to drown the conversation from Erwin’s ears. Each time a new arrival enters the stage Hange whispers some sort of insider’s introduction to the act and the performers.

He learns that the duo of the strawberry haired young girl and the older man are named Petra and Oluo respectively. That they are not currently seeing one another, but put on the act of unsatisfied married couple with inspiration from the way they always bickered. Their song, which Erwin translates as they go on, makes him chuckle silently to himself.

 _You are young_ , she sings. _And I am old_ , he sings in reply. _You are beautiful. And I am not. We fight and argue but there is something about us not in opposition._ The act is rather risqué, but the audience enjoys it and so does Erwin. In fact, along with the taste of the brandy it manages to relax him enough that he loosens his tie and unbuttons the top most button of his collared shirt.

He’s supplied with other names after that, Gunther, who sings about making love to a German soldier in frilly pink lingerie and a brown wig. This is a particular crowd pleaser for obvious reasons. Dot is also dressed in a drag and has an act of comedy where his wig keeps being knocked off and his bald head exposed by either the trombone player behind him, named Eld, or with the twirls and jumps he attempts to make in his graceless dance.  Shadis leads a chorus line of determined dancers who pull him into their complicated choreography. He is reluctant but manages to become part of their kick line in the end with impressive assimilation.

Nana finally arrives on stage and she is radiant in a sheer white dress with complicated lingerie beneath it. He’s charmed by her, and dumbstruck all at once that she could be so delicate amidst her life as a soldier. The sound of her voice as she sings to the man on the piano makes him grin. She is smooth and seductive, but playful with the she bares her stocking covered leg to him and runs her fingers through his hair.

He translates as she sings. _Do you not notice, my love, the way I desire you. When will you see how much I am in love? When will you notice? Do I have to be naked in front of you for you to understand?_

The man at the piano acts as if she is invisible, and instead plays the sweet melody that curls around her voice. Erwin steals a glance at Mike and smiles. He’s enthralled, staring at her as if she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, despite her broad shoulders and boyish features, short hair and big hands.

The crowd heckles the man at the piano and Erwin is actually laughing at the things they say throughout the entire performance. Finally, at the end of the song, the man turns around and looks at Nana, who is practically naked on the stage apart from her cream colored bustier and stockings. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” he says. Erwin has to hold himself on the table he laughs so hard.

“You’ll want to stay, Erwin. For the finale,” Hange interjects in his fit of laughter.

“Oh?” Erwin turns to her, laughter quieting with her rather enigmatic suggestion.

Mike, coming round from his one sided love affair with Nana’s performance, chimes in as well, “Rivaille is their headliner, the star.”

“He’s very talented and he doesn’t like to repeat his acts so it’s almost always something new,” Hange explains, there’s reverence in her voice that Erwin attributes to a personal relationship between her and this Rivaille she speaks of.

“Sometimes he dresses as a woman. He almost always sings but he can play the piano and the violin if I’m not mistaken.” She consults Mike with a glance and he nods in confirmation.

Erwin is about to reply when the audience applauds the new arrival on the stage.

The man, the boy by the looks of it, is small in stature. He is alone on the stage, so Erwin cannot compare his height to anyone else, but he guesses that Rivaille is not any taller than his chest. And with chests now on his mind he notices the way Rivaille has his shirt unbuttoned entirely. His suspenders shrugged off his shoulders and hung down at his legs, the expanse of his skin displayed to the audience with no shirt underneath.

“ _Il faisait chaud_ ,” he says, glancing down at himself as he lands in center stage. _It was warm_ is what he says. The audience gives a low wave of laughter to the deadpan of his voice and he appears entirely ambivalent to it. Erwin watches how he turns back to silently communicate with the band. Upon which Erwin is able to see the neatness of his haircut and where the long black locks meet in the back with the way they are slicked to his head.

Eyes meet the audience again, coal black by what Erwin can discern from so far away. It’s hard to tell regardless, the way his eyelids seem to fall to half-mast and cover most of the irises. There’s a seductive quality to the stare, an aloofness he attributes to decadence and lust. He introduces the song in French and Erwin isn’t sure why he’s having such a hard time following the words. With a sigh he pours himself more brandy, intentionally not meeting the eyes of his comrades as he does.

And when Rivaille begins to sing the air goes out of the room.

No one speaks the way they did along with the other acts. No one dares to look away or drink their drink or puff at their cigarette and Erwin feels disrespectful just breathing. It’s a song he recognizes hearing before; on a record, in the shows he had happened into before the occupation, on streets by French performers. It’s popular and timeless. But never has he heard it sung quite like this.

It’s a sweet song, a song about love. At least in its traditional presentation. But Rivaille sings it like a song about making love, about desire. His hands don’t stay at his sides, they move over his own forearms, over his own chest and neck. He’s touching every centimeter of exposed skin and sliding his fingers through his own hair.

And his eyes are on the audience, making love to them with the tenor of his voice, higher from how deep it sounded when he spoke. It’s beautiful; Erwin puts the adjective on it before he can stop himself from thinking. Beautiful not in the way a flower blooms or a woman smiles. Beautiful in the way a woman would spread her legs with a blush. Beautiful the way a lover would look as they felt you move inside of them.

Erwin swallows hard, taking another drink as Rivaille sings.

_He's so sweet_   
_my beloved treasure, he's a bit crazy_   
_life is sometimes too bitter_   
_if we don't believe in chimaeras_   
_grief eases up quick_   
_and consoles itself with a kiss_

The song has never seemed this slow and quick at the same time. Slow, by Rivaille’s cadence and too fast as he sings the final verse so soon, whereupon his hands are caging his own neck, thumbs teasing at the underside of his jaw.

Erwin claps so enthusiastically at its end that Hange laughs.

“I told you, Erwin,” she says as she claps. “He’s something else. Rivaille.” She whistles and shouts in French. “ _Refais nous l'amour, Rivaille!_ ” And it’s certainly not the only call for sex in the room.

When it all settles again, the hum of conversation mingles with the band, who all remain on stage to play cheerful music. The table Erwin is sitting at becomes the location for a hot headed, drunken conversation about the cold. He is only slightly warmed by the brandy, still too sober to be even a fraction of how passionate any of the others at the table are being. Even Nana, who has returned to them, is ringing in with a slurred complaint every now and then.

He’s disinterested, searching the floor for something he’s not sure of. His mind supplied him with Rivaille’s name but he brushes that away. But his mind is certainly on the song that he signs. It’s the first time in a long time he feels the low heat of desire in his belly. It’s been two years since he’s had anyone and never once has it bothered him before. Never has he felt as lonely as he does now.

“Rivaille!” Hange shouts.

Erwin glances up an finds that he was correct in guessing Rivaille’s height. He could easily be mistaken for a teenager with the way he stands by their table. He seems nonplussed at Hange’s shouting, as if it’s something he’s infinitely familiar with.

“ _Bonsoir_ , Hange,” He greets her, looking over the others with the same sort of enthusiasm. Though he stops on Erwin, who is staring at him with intent he isn’t aware of until their eyes meet. Erwin looks at Hange quickly, who sees it as a call for an introduction rather than a means to save face.

“How rude of me _._ ” She apologizes. Her smile is bright and for once it’s easy to see her eyes through her dirty glasses, excitement is there in the brown irises.

“Erwin this is Rivaille,” she is speaking in English for the sake of Erwin’s supposed drunkenness and his past proven inability to understand French with too much wine in his belly. Or perhaps it’s out of habit, he isn’t sure which. She turns her gaze back to Rivaille at the same time Erwin does. He’s looking at Erwin still, hands in his pockets to show he doesn’t intend to shake his hand with a greeting.

“ _Rivaille c'est Erwin Smith_ ,” she says and Erwin watches Rivaille’s brow furrow slightly.

“You are English then? Smith is an English name, yes?”

His accent is terrifically thick, but the words are flawlessly spoken. Erwin manages to look slightly baffled by the accuracy of his English. “Yes,” he replies, realizing that his eyebrows must be raised.

“I speak English. Yes. Is that too much of a surprise for you, Erwin?” he asks, there’s a slight curl of his lips, annoyance there, and also cherry lipstick.

“My apologies, Rivaille.” The indignant lilt in Rivaille’s voice gets under his skin a bit more than he anticipates. “I’m not used to many people knowing English here. Certainly not as well as you do.”

“I learned to speak it some time ago,” he says flatly. “Pointless. I should have learned German instead.”

The table laughs with him. Nana declares that she is thirsting for fresh air and turns to Mike to be her escort. When they rise, others tag along with them, much to Mike’s clear disappointment. Only a few remain at their table, two who are quite occupied with kissing one another and Hange who has elected to start cutting another cigar. Erwin is not sure what possesses him when he says it.

“Would you like to have a drink, Rivaille?”

Rivaille cocks his head slightly, crossing his arms, “With you?”

Erwin’s mouth goes dry with trepidation and his brows furrow. Though it hardly looks as if he’s anxious about Rivaille’s immediate skepticism. “Yes. I’m asking you aren’t I?”

“I simply did not expect you to ask,” he supplies. His eyes, which are flint grey at this distance, travel to the couple kissing in the booth. His lip curls slightly and then he looks away. “Elsewhere.”

He picks up the bottle of brandy as if it were his own, along with one of the empty glasses. Without seeing if Erwin will follow, he walks away. His hips swing in a distinctly feminine way, the way a dancer’s might.

Erwin observes his movements, how graceful they are, but shakes the observation away before standing. He follows Rivaille as he’s led to a table in the corner of the club; too far from the stage and too much to the right to be of any use during the show. It has two seats facing one another and Rivaille has already sat down in one. He makes himself his drink, glancing up at Erwin from where he’s nested.

“So, Erwin Smith, what brings you to the French Resistance?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Hange is inspired by real life Résistance operative France Bloch-Sérazin  
> -There was indeed a massive cold snap in Paris in the January of 1942 when this story begins  
> -Hange shouts at Levi "Make love to us again!" when his performance is over  
> -Bonsoir means goodnight  
> -The song Levi sings is called "Parlez-Moi D'Amour" from 1930. Otherwise known as that-song that you can hear in a lot of music boxes.
> 
> As always you can find me here: http://infinitygauntlets.tumblr.com/
> 
> And my editor here: http://jaimelann.tumblr.com/


	2. Le Silex et L'acier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re here aren’t you? And you have asked a burlesque performer to join you for a drink. Not many would venture so far for a man such as I, if they did not have some other intention. So what, pray you, does that mean, Monsieur Smith?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this tonight along with the first chapter because I just can't wait until morning

“You mistake my meaning,” he says with his arms crossed about his chest. He has not yet buttoned his shirt and appears rather comfortable with his skin exposed. It has a light dusting of translucent powder over it that makes it glow in the dull light, but had him luminous when he stood in the spotlight on stage. The fact that it’s there at all makes his open shirt an entirely deliberate act.

Erwin is seated across from him with his brandy, drinking a fresh glass after pouring a new one upon seating himself. It’s only his second one, he’s been drinking it slowly to remember how it feels for when he is prohibited from it the second he leaves. Good brandy was tragically hard to come by these days. Champagne was, for all intents and purposes, extinct.

“Because I am employed here does not mean that I am part of this movement,” he continues and Erwin considers his words.

“The Nazis are in your country, in your city,” he admonishes and Rivaille looks up at the ceiling like a petulant teenager.

“This is not your country and yet you fight for it,” he observes and manages to redirect the conversation. “Why do you fight with the French? You are not French, you are English.” His eyes narrow slightly as they return to Erwin’s face. “And something else I cannot place.” Austrian. He feels relieved to have duped Rivaille.

“I fight because the Nazis must be fought. If I were in any other country I might have done the same. It was only that I was here when they arrived. Staying with Mike, whom I’m sure you’ve met.”

Rivaille nods, “Yes I know who he is. He is French, Parisian, too. He grew up near me.” Erwin knows where Michel lived, that boy Mike has forgotten. Erwin would ask if Rivaille was also Jewish if he didn’t feel as if it were too much of a delicate subject to bring up these days.

The other man continues and Erwin leans forward on the table, forearms resting against the tarnished wood. “I may associate with you all. But I choose not to fight because I have no fight with them. They do wicked things, but not to me. Why would I create conflict?”

Erwin sets his jaw. He digs dirt out from his thumbnail with the other and keeps his eyes trained on Rivaille. He seems to care little about anything, suggesting that his stage presence was as just as much of an act as the others. In the spotlight he seemed to care so much for those hands he adored, the lips that kissed him flushed and whispered to him sweet nothings of love.

Now Erwin was hard-pressed to find even a change of expression in his face as he speaks plainly, “It is not my fight, _Monsieur_ , and it is not yours either. But I am not interested in trying to convince you and your fellow soldiers in the night to stop what you are doing. With you around I make enough money here not to take other work.”

He pauses to take a drink, holding onto his glass with both hands as he sets it back down on the table. His voice is gravely as he takes down the alcohol, “The moment they close the Ailes is the moment I will get involved in this war but not any sooner. I have needs. Not just to perform or make money, but your men provide excellent entertainment for me under the right circumstances.”

Erwin’s eyebrows raise at that. It was already plain to him that Rivaille was interested in men, but hearing him say it out loud is much different. He considers Hange’s words from earlier, her explanation that on certain nights Rivaille would don a dress and garters like many of the other men who graced the stage. He wonders, more vividly than he had allowed for earlier, what Rivaille would look like as a woman.

"They must realize you are a man," he speculates. He notes that Rivaille’s hands rest neatly around the glass he drinks from. They’re almost preposterously clean. It wasn’t insulting, to recognize that those who took employment in clubs like this tended to have a permanent sort of grime on their bodies. For most of the other faces and bodies he’s seen in clubs like this, it is most often the make-up and adornments they wore for the stage. But his is spectacularly clean as well, on his terribly uninterested face.

His eyebrow, thin and penciled slightly with black, arches up finally with a semblance of emotion, “Surely you aren’t foolish enough to think that all soldiers prefer women.”

Erwin looks him up and down again, pointedly. The man is wearing a nearly incredible amount of rouge on his pale cheeks and his body is fairly reminiscent of several women he’s courted in the past. He remembers each one of them, noticing now his trend of finding petite women the most compatible. Or perhaps not, as there is no woman beside him at the moment.

But there’s a level of condescension in Rivaille’s statement that makes him prickle. Regardless, of the thoughts that pass through his head; warm, soft bodies and long curled hair that would ordinarily pacify him.

"And those men never seem to make it very far. I am aware of them. But their lifestyle is deviant and intolerable to everyone."

Rivaille rolls his eyes, which at first seems to be an impossible feat under such thick-lashed, heavy lids.

“ _Tu dois te moquer de moi_ ,” he mutters in French. “You Englishmen. If you think that they are not tolerated than you are a bigger fool than I first thought. I told you I learned English,  _oui_? Where do you think I learned it from?”  The thickness of his accent manages to become even stronger. Erwin wonders if it’s the condescension that colors it or the sudden French indigence towards the British that doesn’t necessarily apply to Erwin Smith.

He does not ask, of course. Instead he takes a sip of his brandy and looks over the rim of the glass expectantly. Rivaille does not hesitate and takes it as his sign to answer.

"By making love to Englishmen just like you."

Erwin pauses, setting his glass down slowly. “You learned English by making love to men?”

Rivaille, by some means that Erwin cannot understand, has managed to slink closer to him across the small table. All without once moving his chair. He’s unassuming, Erwin thinks, and all other thoughts are lost to Rivaille’s consuming proximity.

His voice drops an octave and despite the noise around them he can still be heard as clear is a bell.

"By playing games." His eyes do not waver from Erwin’s and Erwin refuses to let his gaze fall. Rivaille continues with not even a hint of delicacy. "One would only give me more if I asked for it in English. I learned all the filthy phrases I could from the others here just so he’d entreat me. And one decided to take me on as a pupil. I asked for lessons but I could not pay."

He shrugs, carefree, and looks down at his hands before glancing back up at Erwin from under his eyelashes. There’s a smile on his voice that doesn’t show on his lips.

"So I let him do what he pleased with me. In the end I’m sure it was me who had the better deal of the two of us. And there were others after him. Englishmen, above any others, with masculine bodies and occupations not unlike yours,  _soldat_.”

 _Soldier._ There’s a particular emphasis on the title that makes Erwin infinitely aware of how his face betrays him. He’s blushing fiercely and he is thankful for the heat in the cramped room of bodies for an alibi. The stage lights are his allies in the meantime. He hopes that their facing away and the subsequent darkening of his face hides the color.

It’s unclear whether Rivaille notices or not, because his expression still does not change. He leans back in his chair again, picking up the cigarettes he’d set on the table at his arrival. Without paying much mind to Erwin — who has the brandy sealed to his lips in an effort to further hide the shock — he starts a match.

After two revving puffs of the cigarette between his lips, he extinguishes the match with a flick of his hand. Carefully, he sets it down between them and his eyes return to Erwin’s face.

"It is all very rich coming from you,  _Monsieur_. Any sort of shock or bashfulness at the deviant lives that mingle in this mad world, with lives as perfect as you would fancy yours to be.”

At that Erwin sets down his glass on the table, “What, pray you, does that mean, Rivaille?”

His eyes haven’t left Erwin’s face and Erwin manages to take it as some sort of silent challenge. All the studying and staring and sizing up, as if Erwin was an opponent to be fought at some later and undisclosed date.

Rivaille presses his lips into a thin line, “You’re here aren’t you? And you have asked a burlesque performer to join you for a drink. Not many would venture so far for a man such as I, if they did not have some other intention. So what,  _pray you_ , does that mean,  _Monsieur Smith_?”

“That I am curious,” Erwin says. The challenge has most certainly been set. “You sing well a-“

The other man scoffs, cutting him off. His eyes darken as smoke clouds around him, “I was singing about another man. I know you know French well enough to understand it, you’ve lived in Paris for at least three years, or longer, since you would have needed to arrive before the occupation.”

Erwin’s jaw flexes, “I knew what you were singing about. I’m very aware.”

“So you are comfortable then, that my inspiration for that performance was clearly about the magnificent sex I’d had with another man?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you condemn me while sharing a drink with me with the words _déviant_ and _pas toléré_. If I am deviant and not tolerated as you say then what have you to say for you and your friends hm? Communists. Jews. They are not tolerated either. You sound very hypocritical, _Monsieur Smith_. No…” He pauses for a moment, considering the words. “Defensive.”

Erwin brows furrow but before he has time to protest, he is cut off. Rivaille has only paused in his rant for a slow drag from his cigarette.

“Would you like to know what I think about you, Erwin?”

The sudden use of his name demands his attention. He takes another drink before looking at Rivaille, sitting forward in his chair so he is sat up straight. He feels larger now, comparatively to Rivaille he lounges in his own chair. But it’s a weak tactic and the smaller man simply rolls his eyes at the machismo.

“I think you are too afraid to admit that you are attracted to men,” his grey eyes search Erwin’s face. “That women have not satisfied you and this curiosity that you speak of is your curiosity to know what it's like.”

Erwin swallows his drink too hard and holds it down before he coughs to break his ambivalence to Rivaille’s words. His expression remains placid, though the brandy tortures his throat, and he does no break his gaze away from the other man. “Know what it's like?” he parrots.

Rivaille, much to Erwin’s surprise, manages the slightest smirk. It’s halfway between proud and amused. “A man making love to you. Or you making love to a man, you seem like the type to take control. You might change your mind if you knew what it was like. Men are different than women. They kiss stronger; you don’t have to be afraid to break them and that must be a concern for you. They’re happier to suck cock than any other woman I’ve met.”

He speaks so bluntly that when it’s Erwin’s turn to speak his words are at a mutiny. He keeps his mouth tight lipped, his thick brows smooth and relaxed from their previous scowl. He’s actively trying to remain calm and he knows that the heat in his cheeks is betraying him now. There’s a beat of silence between the two of them and it is auspiciously shattered by the start of a new song by the band. People around them are dancing now, between the chairs and the tables on a floor that was never meant to become a ballroom.

“I’m not a homosexual, Rivaille, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I just talked about making love to another man, Erwin, it’s entirely what I’m suggesting,” he deadpans. “Did you think I did not notice your blush before? Your blush now? The way you were looking at me when I sang?” he says, sounding bored with the situation and Erwin’s resistance, which of course only makes Erwin fight harder. Though he remains ever calm, letting his instincts take hold; because it’s always been rather easy for him to keep a level head in tense situations. Even when the words and thoughts are a flurry in his head he’s able to discern a path through them.

“I told you before. I was enthralled by your singing voice. Nothing more,” his words are carefully chosen, eyes watching Rivaille as he smokes his cigarette and flicks the ash neatly into the ashtray. When he sighs and stands, Erwin merely trails his eyes upwards but does not move.

“Then I suppose we are done here,” he says quietly, letting the cigarette rest between his lips so he’s free to pick up his glass and the bottle of brandy that was never his.

Erwin suddenly becomes territorial over that brandy.

He stands as Rivaille walks off and disappears through a door near the stage. He pays no mind to Erwin and perhaps that is what causes this building frustration he feels in his chest. He’s in control of himself, still, and it’s a choice to move towards the stage door that Rivaille has vanished behind.

There is no lock to prevent him from opening it, only a hand painted sign that reads “ _défense d'entrer_ ”. So he opens it quickly and moves like quicksilver between the half-dressed dancers and clouds of perfumed cigarette smoke. None ask who he is, where he belongs. He’s certain he hears somebody whistle after him in a cat call but he ignores them determinedly. Rivaille is in his sights, walking into a door just before the end of the long hallway.

He glances towards Erwin as he turns the knob, another slow smirk on his face before he enters the dressing room.

He leaves the door open.

“I see now. You only desired a place more private” is all he says when Erwin appears in the doorframe. Rivaille has shucked his shirt entirely and is folding it neatly. He faces away from Erwin and shows the smooth expanse of his back to the taller man. Erwin glances away, catching his profile in the mirror on the wall to their right.

“You took my brandy.”

Because that is of course why he is there is it not? Rivaille spins on his heel and looks back at Erwin. His expression, the most intense reaction he’s had since they’ve begun speaking, is one of incredulity. He puts his shirt aside and leans back on the counter that collects the tins and compacts of make-up. There are three black wigs there of varying length, hats and headpieces. Dresses and clothes all neatly hung in the open closet in the corner.

“So you followed me back stage? For your brandy?”

It’s on the counter and Rivaille stands between them reuniting.

“You’d be surprised what I’d do for brandy, Rivaille. I haven’t had decent brandy in three years,” Erwin says flatly. He means it to be a joke but Rivaille doesn’t even smirk. His eyes travel over the room further, admiring its cleanliness, and then land finally on Rivaille. Specifically, the dark hair that disappears below the waistline of his pants; it’s something he doesn’t expect to see, that hair on his navel.

His gaze returns upwards and he catches a look of himself in the mirror. There’s redness in his cheeks and his eyes seem more blue than normal in the dressing room lights.

Rivaille isn’t laughing in a slow response at his attempt at humor, but he is laughing now. It’s dark, low and raspy from the combined abuse of cigarettes and wine. He reaches back and pushes the bottle even farther behind him.

“Then come and get it, Erwin.”

It’s the like the spark of a match against its strike strip.

“Why?”

Rivaille even seems surprised by the question. Not in the way most people might have been, with raised eyebrows, open mouths, or wide eyes. Erwin notes that Rivaille is subdued in everything he does and it’s like a secret language that would take years of practice to understand. But he finds a cognate in the way those low lids flutter almost imperceptibly.

“Because you are so determined to get it, following me all the way back here. You‘re breaking the rules by coming backstage. I’m not just going to hand it to you.”

A beat of silence hushes the room and behind them, in the hallway, it seems like most have disappeared or shut their doors to drown out the sound. The band plays like an echo in the theatre and all that can be heard is the low thud of the drum.

“Are you interested in me, Rivaille? Is that why you continue to tease and push that I’m so desperate to have sex with you?”

Erwin recalls the first time he beat his father at chess. In the army, when he was promoted, he remembers the words that were spoken to him by his superior officer. _Du bist immer zehn schritte vor allen anderen, Smith._ You’re always ten steps ahead of everyone else. He feels a steady confidence in those words now.

There’s no response from Rivaille, at least right away. He considers the taste of Erwin’s comment by the looks of it, his hooded eyes remaining on the taller man’s face. There’s silence again, drawing out for a long while and it balances the leverage in their conversation.

“I’m merely curious to see how far I can push you. Since you are so determined to be a man who is only interested in women. I do not want you, Erwin Smith. Your assumption is laughable.”

Erwin quirks an eyebrow, “Conjecture, then?” He takes a step forward, inviting himself entirely into the warmth of the room. The lights make it even hotter than it was out in the main room behind them.

“Conjecture,” Rivaille affirms.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment and then Erwin reaches out his hand expectantly. Rivaille looks down at it, then back to the taller gaze, before turning and facing back at the mirror to wipe himself clean of his make-up.

“I’m still not handing it to you, Englishman. I meant what I said. If you want to have it come and get it.”

Troublesome, is the first word that comes to Erwin’s mind. He watches Rivaille passively clean himself of the rogue and powder, the ink black around his eyes and in his brows, the cherry on his lips. Much to Erwin’s chagrin he realizes how intently he is watching him in the mirror when he catches his own gaze. Though Rivaille hardly seems to notice and if he does he does not show it.

Erwin takes a deep sigh, running his fingers through sweat soaked hair at the nape of his neck. He feels desperate for a bath, and slightly drunk now amidst the three glasses of brandy he’s consumed. Perhaps later, he thinks, he can blame his actions on it. He’s hardly had more than a spot of wine or beer with dinner since the occupation. Nothing compared to what he’s had tonight.

His steps are carefully placed as he moves towards Rivaille. Again, there is no change in expression, though he makes his footfalls on the floorboards deliberately loud. They creak beneath him with age but Rivaille is presumably too occupied with his work to notice.

When Erwin comes close, Rivaille bends over more, and Erwin is forced to take a step back to prevent their hips from making contact. He glances down, to the skin that disappears below fabric and the dimples on the lowermost part of his back. Erwin swallows, and then glances up at Rivaille in the mirror. His eyes haven’t so much as left his own face in the reflection and Erwin’s own eyes narrows slightly in disbelief at the passivity he’s exhibiting.

When he takes another step forward, Rivaille turns slowly to face him. It causes Erwin to freeze, hand outstretched in a way that meant to reach over him for the wax sealed bottleneck. But now a body blocks his path, one with piercing grey eyes that stare up at him expectantly.

Rivaille stands even smaller than he had first guessed and it makes his jaw flex for a reason he can’t begin to understand.

“Go on then, _Monsieur_ ,” Rivaille drawls, hardly lifting his chin to look up at Erwin. There’s no make-up on his face now and it’s rubbed slightly red from the removal. His cheeks are pink, eyelids less dramatic. But most noticeable of all his lips appear swollen and pouted, raw with friction.

The only means of reaching the bottle is to step close and slide his hand under the triangle of space made by Rivaille’s side, arm, and the countertop.  Erwin decides that this is his best tactic of approach, so he moves close enough that their chests are mere centimeters from one another and sharing the warmth they both radiate. Rivaille’s breath hits his neck immediately and it’s surprisingly hot against his already burning skin. It’s all a game to Rivaille, he realizes slowly. Just a game.

“You’re trying to seduce me, Rivaille,” he saves. Glancing down at him which means he must lean back at least enough to ensure his lips do not brush the crown of the shorter man’s head. “I’m not a fool.”

Rivaille chuckles low, the sound is buried in his chest and hardly escapes his mouth apart from the slow release of breath. It tickles at Erwin’s collarbone, “I don’t _try_ to seduce anyone, people are simply seduced.”

“That’s a lie. And this is a game,” Erwin says, with tense jaw and careful hand as his grip reaches around the plump bottom of the bottle.

“It’s not anything, _Monsieur_. You wouldn’t be saying these things at all if you weren’t feeling attraction to me.”

Erwin manages to retrieve the bottle to his possession. He’s decidedly flippant; in the way he steps back and takes Rivaille in at full length again. The skin across his chest is blushed pink and Erwin is left wondering if it is a result of their proximity. The image of it is seared into his mind along with the plump lips, the casual smoking, the chuckle that never really comes out of his mouth.

“I’ve told you I’m not interested.”

Rivaille smirks with only the corners of his mouth. He’s quiet then, and gets dressed with a well-practiced efficiency, paying little mind to the enormous obstacle Erwin’s body presents him. His clothes are well made and the coat he wears has ostentatious gold fastenings that suggest a designer of some kind, something bought in a department store that Erwin couldn’t ever dream of going into. As he walks out the door, he ties his scarf in with strange reminiscence of the way Erwin’s father would wear his neckties before he passed.

“ _Bonsoir,_ Erwin. Sleep well,” he says casually, moving past Erwin, out the door. He doesn’t turn back to give his farewell and Erwin is left holding the bottle of brandy in his dressing room alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -"tu dois te moquer de moi" means "you must be kidding me"
> 
> As always you can find me here: http://infinitygauntlets.tumblr.com/


	3. Dentelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Louis," she sings sweetly, her voice immediately recognizable above the guise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys! Notes are at the end with all the fun Historical tidbits.

- **Février 1942** -

Erwin wakes up, for the fifth time in two weeks, slick with sweat. As he blinks the dreams from his eyelashes, he can still hear the words whispered against his lips. Tantalizing French, his own name in hushed pleads. His hands ghost upwards, feeling the hips that aren't there, the body that felt too warm and too real only moments before. It's the fifth time he wakes up so hard in his pajamas that he needs to splash cold water on his face the moment he's awake. It hasn't been this way since he was a boy.

As he stares at himself in the mirror, he admires the thin red slice on his lip where it's busted open. He presses at it, hissing when it protests with a violent sting, and frowns. It's more conspicuous when he's hurt, soldiers are more likely to stop him on the street and question him. He wouldn't have been, perhaps, if the German messenger had been short and fat like the information they had received stated. Instead he was tall, broad built and strong so that when Erwin found him with his transport they were evenly matched and a struggle ensued. Mike had come through in the end, Nana too. Mike hitting him over the back of the head and Nana holding him down with her knees so Erwin could slit his throat. Regardless of the success, he left his mark on Erwin in the form of a busted lip stamped into his face with the butt of a rifle. It was fortunate he hadn't lost any teeth in the process.

There's always a strange thickness in the air after somebody dies at his hands. It's a phantom of a feeling, with which he's come to terms with hosting. No matter how hard he scrubs, there's still blood in the crevices of his nails, dark along the edges near his skin. He sighs, leaving the work for a later time and begins walking habitually out towards the Seine.

Café Rose was once owned by Jewish family before they had their deed stripped and placed in the hands of a French family. It sits nestled on the river side with only six small tables to house patrons outside of its cramped interior. Some days the tiny cafe appears as though it might collapse under the imposing weight of the five floors above it. But as all things in Paris these days, it stands strong. When he arrives he has to quell the slowly boiling anger of an elderly Frenchman. He's shouting at the owner, not accepting the apologies for their lack of  _Tarte Tatin_  due a to a shortage of ingredients when Erwin gets to him. The owner thanks him by offering him free coffee, which he graciously declines.

He chooses to sit outside, admiring the river, brittle and grey in the cold. He finds himself thinking of Rivaille's eyes, but pushes the thought away. He pushes all thoughts of Rivaille away. He fails most of the time, no matter how foolish it is.

The paper he reads discloses information about the attacks that transpired the night before. All in well filtered paragraphs and finely chosen words. Writers for the major publications are well paid supporters of the Nazi's or are justifiably afraid of what would happen if they deviated from the expected praises of Hitler and his influence. There is no mention of the opposition or the people who carried out the attacks apart from when they are delicately tethered with adjectives that might be saved for the monster in a children's story. And in some ways the French people are like children, or at least they are treated like them.

Over the edge of his paper he is surprised to see a woman on a bicycle with fruit in her basket. It's unexpected for anyone to have fresh fruit these days, especially this late in the day after the shops have been given their miniscule supply. He realizes it's been at least two months since he's eaten a fresh apple or pear and whenever he's had one placed in his hands he's given it away to somebody else. He finds it necessary. Whenever they manage to steal crates of food from soldiers he gives his share to the family of seven that live down the hall.

German soldiers on the other hand have champagne and fruit and cheese to spare. They have brandy. Erwin thinks about what it would have been like if he stayed. If they food would taste delicious or like ash on his tongue. He wonders how many innocent people he might have been responsible for killing by now. Somehow that thought makes his stomach turn over, but not that blood dried in his nail beds, even when he sucks his fingers clean of the flakes of the croissant he eats. 

By the late afternoon he's exhausted himself from walking around the city. Cold has made permanent residence in his lungs and making his way through the cobblestoned streets irritate the old injury he has in his right knee. People in the streets stare at him as he passes. Perhaps, he thinks, for his resilience to casually walk about in the midst of a snow storm, or it may be the grace with which he manages to avoid slipping in his neat, but well-worn boots. He's feeling particularly happy for leaving Austria again. The snow in Paris seemed docile in comparison.

And at the end of his reasoning, he isn't sure what possesses him to keep walking. Nor does he understand fully, the motive of drifting towards Montemarte. But there's no denying his intentions the moment he arrives in the slowing courtyard of the Ailes just as the sun sinks behind the horizon of the buildings.

He's immediately warm again, as he's enveloped by the dull lit room of the club itself. With his coat, jacket, and hat left at the entrance, he's peeled the layers down to only a neat white shirt that he meticulously folds at the cuffs to bring the sleeves just below his elbows. None of his comrades are found at their normal booth at the back, which remains reverently empty and noticeably uncleaned in their absence. Upon inspection, the crowd is thin for the evening, which he attributes to the mission from the night before. The orchestration involved was phenomenal and with most of the commanders being regulars, they make up what he assumes would be the bulk of the audience on any other evening. 

The table he chooses is on the periphery, towards the left side of the club and on the opposite edge of the floor to where the stage door is located.  He orders brandy from one of the waitresses, a girl who cheerily identifies herself as Isabel despite him never asking and wears her hair in two pigtails behind her ears. She chirps about him when she returns with his drink. Her pink dress is just on the other side of too short and her smile is entirely infectious.

"I figure maybe I'd dance too," she says in French as she rests her hand on the back of his chair. "I do sometimes. In the chorus with Keith, but they all say I don't have long enough legs."

Erwin tells himself not to look down and find out if what she's saying is true or not. He lets the brandy sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing.

"It doesn't really matter," she sighs, continuing without his opinion. "I'm not interested in dancing. I don't know if Hange has told anything to you about me, but I work with Rico. The woman who writes for Dot. Do you read  _Défense de la France_ , monsieur?"

He nods, not realizing that Dot was the man responsible for the publication. It's hard to imagine him with in his wig, managing the newspaper.  "When I have the chance," he responds with heavily accented French. 

"Oh good! I'm not a writer, but I help her type up her stories and run them to the press. It's a dangerous job," she giggles. "Or they tell me so. I don't have problems defending myself."

It's a funny image, the small girl who is practically leaning on him brandishing a rifle or fighting off Germans with a knife. He mentions the latter to her, intending it to be a compliment, but quickly adds that he does not doubt her strength as a vote of confidence for the girl. All of which she merely laughs off with a giggle.

"Do you know Pierre Loutrel?"

Erwin immediately looks up, brow furrowing slightly, "That gangster from the Carlingue?" He's heard the name several times over, of course. He along with Henri Lafont were the leaders of the Carlingue, the French Gestapo. At origin, they were spawns of the underworld. Loutrel was a pimp, known by most as Crazy Pete,  _Pierrot le fou_ , who was recruited by the Nazi's to head their police force in exchange for protection. They both had wagered off their ledgers to escape imprisonment and in doing so were granted, essentially, a license to kill. Erwin had been planning for months now to have them killed, but his efforts had been fruitless.

She smiles sweetly, "I associated with him in the past. Nothing serious. He's a vile man. Though I bested him in a fight once, you know? He's got a weak left shoulder." 

The show opens and she disappears before he has time to respond. 

The opening number presents him with familiar faces. Petra and Oluo have a playful skirmish after they bump into each other, Shadis looks displeased to be announced, and Dot looks almost too pleased to be announced. Nana is there, smiling as graciously as a princess might be when she is called to center stage. She wriggles her fingers at the crowd and a man whistles from the back. Rivaille is called last, being the closing act makes that understandable. He wears something plain and bows quickly before disappearing off stage without finishing the number. It dawns on Erwin why he didn't realize his presence the last time he'd seen their opening routine. Apart from his jet hair and his height, there is not anything particularly outstanding about him. Of course, until, he made to command the attention of the room. It was clear that was a talent of his.

There isn't anything different in the show aside from outfits. Isabel, who returns mid-way through to refresh his brandy, assures him that the numbers do vary - after their brief conversation about his past attendance and what he'd seen then when he first visited. She smiles, "I promise Violette will be the most interesting. Rivaille is so entertaining when he takes her on."

She winks and walks off, pink dress swinging on her hips behind her. Erwin has no idea what she means.

It makes him anxious after that, waiting for the final number. Nana manages to put him at ease with the sweet coo of her voice. She's changed her outfit as well, donning a rose colored chemise that makes her blonde hair particularly striking. When she spots him in the audience and they make brief eye contact, she slips him a smile around the words of her song before pushing the chemise down her body. If it had been done to Mike, Erwin is certain he would have fainted.

There's a brief pause between Nana's performance and what should be Rivaille's. Erwin twists the base of his goblet of brandy on the table, causing the the liquid inside to spin round into a whirlpool. It's a nervous act, a distraction, and everyone who isn't Erwin Smith could plainly see that. One woman watches him as he does, frowning, and when Erwin catches her with with his cold blue gaze she looks away with a blush.

It is exactly four minutes - Erwin measures the time with his wristwatch - after Nana, that there is movement on the stage. He glances up quickly, to see a broad shouldered man in plain stage hand's clothes carrying a chair to the center of the stage. He's muscular, tall, large enough that his shirt is ill-fitting but is in all likelihood the largest size they carried at the store he bought it from.

Erwin sits forward, watching the man as he stands at the chair as if he means to sit down. Yet he doesn't, and keeps his eyes trained off stage, a hazy smile on his handsome face. He's has dirty blonde hair, dark eyes, the deep in-cut of dimples on his cheeks when he grins. The band plays slowly and quietly, mood music for the room but to Erwin's ears it fits perfectly with the what he sees.

A woman appears, leaning on the pillar supporting the proscenium above. She has dark hair and though the curls are pinned lazily on the top of her head, most pour down along the frame of her face. Her coat is on, tan fur that swallows her whole. Below she has on black stockings, black buckled mary jane heels. Erwin's eye line starts there and travels upward, he can't see her face aside from her profile, which is lovely with full red lips, rose colored cheeks, dark lashes. She hardly has the coat on for a moment before she steps forward and out of it. It drops behind her on the floor to reveal the lingerie she has beneath. A dark emerald corset cinches her at the waist and black frilly panties made of black lace jut out from underneath. They are pressed down in four spots where the garters lie, that hold up the black stockings at her upper thigh. Erwin's eyes are trapped there, studying the expanse of cream skin from there until where it disappears behind the lace.

" _Louis_ ," she sings sweetly, her voice immediately recognizable above the guise.

"Violette," Louis says, pointedly not in song. His voice is deep, husky from the sight of her.

The name is like the feeling of falling. Erwin keeps his mouth tight as he realizes what Isabel meant by taking Violette on, what Hange had said before.

Rivaille.

Violette...Rivaille...sings back to Louis as she slinks towards him. Erwin forces himself to translate, exterminating any other thoughts that occupy his mind. He forces himself to stop thinking of Violette. It's Rivaille. Rivaille. But somehow that's worse.

" _Louis is a fool_  
 _And will forever be_  
 _He is the blindest man that ever was_  
 _How could he not know?_ "

His hands catch Louis first. They press into his chest and slide over the tight shirt he wears up to his shoulders. His hands come to Rivaille's waist, holding him there. Rivaille leans up like he means to kiss him, standing on his toes and popping one leg backward, but then he turns away at the last moment so he can look at the audience. He grins, lip caught in his teeth. People heckle and Erwin doesn't pay any attention to them. It's the first time he sees Rivaille smile.

" _He has no idea_ ," Rivaille sings around his grin. " _What I'm hiding underneath all this_." 

Louis seems upset by the way he was teased. He snarls slightly, spinning Rivaille around as if he was featherlight and yanks him back so his back against the taller man's chest. He gasps deliciously, arching slowly against the man and gives the audience a devilish look.

" _And I tease him every moment I can_  
 _Because that's the game_  
 _If he were to find out_  
 _It would be over before it started_

 _So I let him touch and kiss_  
 _Put his hands on me..._ "

At that Louis' hands slide down his sides and to his hips, tracing the curves that Erwin never thought could exist on a man. Rivaille lets his eyes slide closed, lips perking at the corners in a familiar way as they grip roughly at his hips and pull him back further. Pulling him, impossibly, into the body behind him until Erwin thinks they might soon combine into one. Rivaille's eyes open, slowly, and they go to the audience again.

" _But never too low..._ "

He catches Louis' hands before the travel too far and puts them up on his waist again. 

" _And never too high_ "

They start to travel upwards and he repeats the action where he guides them to his waist, squeezing around them so they cage him. That makes Rivaille gasp again, lolling his head back so his hair is pushed up against Louis' neck.

The two embrace for a beat before Louis spins them around and puts Rivaille into the chair. He falls down with a petulant look, eyes peering up from under his lashes to the man standing above him. As Louis moves closer, Rivaille extends his leg further. The taller man catches it, gripping his ankle and his fingers nearly touch around the delicacy of it. Erwin lets out a slow breath. Rivaille is delicate, there's no other way to describe him.

Louis continues to move forward, extending Rivaille's leg up into an impossible feat of flexibility. He grips at the edge of the chair, looking up at him still, bearing her neck to him in glorious submission. She wears a black ribbon around her throat and Erwin imagines his finger slipped underneath, crooking and dragging Rivaille forward. He thinks of Rivaille gasping with his red strained mouth falling open and gripping onto his wrist for balance. 

" _One day he'll find out I suppose_  
 _And then it will be over_  
 _Louis wants something_  
 _I don't have_ "

Rivaille's hand reaches down, rubbing over himself through the panties. The audience laughs but Erwin's throat is to dry to call forward any sort of sound. He drinks the rest of his brandy in three gulps, feeling it burn deliciously in his throat like a splash of ice water in his face. From where he is sitting he can't see Rivaille's face behind the expanse of Louis back, and he's grateful. The thought of flushed cheeks, an open mouth, lowered eyelids; all are torturous enough in an abstract form.

But fortune changes quickly and he watches Louis lower himself to his knees, dragging his cheek along the Rivaille's inner-leg. Erwin is staring; Rivaille's eyes are downcast on the top of the blonde’s head. He isn't smirking, isn't reacting at all. Just curiously watching before he reaches and catches the man's chin. He crooks his leg, resting over his shoulder, heel digging into his back.

" _He thinks I'm a tease_  
 _And I suppose that I am_  
 _But the game is too fun_  
 _To end so soon, Louis_ "

At the end of the verse his eyes flick up and catch Erwin's from the stage. Erwin can't bring himself to tear his eyes away no matter how hard he tries. They hold the stare for a long time, neither smiling in recognition nor nodding to give a sort of greeting. Rivaille still sings, not breaking his eyes away either. His hands run through Louis hair as he kneels; only saved from prostration by the grip Rivaille takes on his hair.

" _But how I wish I didn't have to_  
 _I wish I could have him_  
 _I wish he could have me_  
 _My sweet fool, Louis_ "

Erwin decides that he's seen enough. 

He stands, meticulously trying to step his way into balance as it falls uneven with the weight of the brandy in his stomach. He makes his way to the entrance, where the door check has his coat, jacket, and hat. He wants to leave, he needs to get out of this strangling heat.

"Name?"

"Smith," he responds, to the blond boy behind the counter. He looks Erwin up and down in some kind of recognition, and then turns away. 

Erwin can hear the music coming to crescendo in the hall. He wonders if Louis and Rivaille will kiss on the stage. If Rivaille will take off Louis' clothes. If Louis will take off Rivaille's. He feels frustrated and foolish, only it's worse now that he realizes he's managed to get himself at least slightly tipsy in the process. He knows why he came here, there's no denying that in the oxymoronic clarity of his murky, alcohol infused thoughts.

"Farlan!  _Il a encore passé_?" Has he left yet? She says. Erwin forces himself to sober. 

Isabel comes peeling out from behind a corner. She spots Erwin, walking towards him quickly with her dress flouncing and heels clicking on the floor. Her French is more rapid now, harder for Erwin to follow. Yet he manages, only just barely.

"Rivaille wants to see you, Erwin," she demands. Her eyes are hopeful and she smiles, but it's clear she's been running. 

Erwin is moving towards the stage door before he even realizes he's doing it.

The air has changed dramatically backstage since the last time he'd been there. The dancers are silent as he walks through them. They stare and whisper but they don't call after him and laugh at his presence as they had before. He wonders what's been said, whether it's Nana's doing or Rivaille's. He suspects the latter.

His door is shut and he half expects there to be a gold star on the outside denoting it to be his. It's Rivaille's though, undoubtedly, by the sound of his voice carrying out into the hall. Erwin knocks once, blush blooming on his cheeks again as he can hear Louis respond.

" _Entrez_."

It takes a moment before he decides, finally, to open the door. In the time between he forces himself to sober the rest of the way. Succeeding, well enough. He prepares to take the defensive against Rivaille.

Louis is there sure enough, hands working at the laces of the corset that Rivaille wears. They seem happy, Rivaille isn't smiling but there's something brighter about him. Imperceptible, of course, if you weren't familiar with his personality. Otherwise his grey eyes that remain focused on the floor might suggest anger, annoyance even. Erwin feels immediately ridiculous, for assuming that he knows Rivaille in anything outside the dreams he refuses to let himself remember.

"You actually listened," he says, not turning his head, but lifting his eyes slightly to peer at Erwin from the corners.

The wig is gone, placed back on the dummy head that Erwin had first spotted it on. So the black hair that had been so neat the last time they met sits mussed on his head and slightly damp with sweat. His make-up remains, more dramatic now without the addition of the wig to complete the picture. 

"I suspected it was important, considering that you had Isabel run after me to get me back here," Erwin says. There’s unwavering confidence in his voice.

"Louis, will you give us a moment?" he asks in French, finally lifting his head to look at Erwin full on. He's asking Louis for a moment alone and the perfumed air sudden becomes heavy on Erwin’s shoulders.

"I'm not done with your laces." Louis seems confused, looking suspiciously at Erwin as he addresses Rivaille. He's concerned about Rivaille's laces, meaning that it's his responsibility to help him dress and undress by some strange placement of rank in the line of command. Rivaille dismisses that concern with wave of his hand. Louis exits, glancing over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him.

Erwin isn't sure what to say, when they're alone. He lifts his chin slightly, peering down at Levi from over his cheekbones, "So his name is really Louis. That's not just the name you chose for the song." He hates how demanding he sounds, he doesn't care. He tells himself he doesn't care at all.

"If you are insinuating that Louis and I are lovers you are quite wrong." There is that accent again, the richness of it with its heavily vowels, the drawl like warm silk. Rivaille continues, walking to the small bar he's made for himself on the counter. He shrugs, passively, "Any name can fit in that song if I wanted it to. Louis is quite uninterested in making love to me if that's what you're so concerned about."

"So you did write the music and lyrics?" Erwin asks. He ignores the reference to Louis sexuality, the squashing of a potential physical relationship shared with Rivaille, and most of all that he is interested in who Rivaille is having sex with or not. Though there's a sickening sense of relief deep down in Erwin's stomach.

"I do a great many things, Monsieur Smith." He walks towards Erwin, a crystal goblet in both hands.

"Is that champagne?" Erwin can't help the disbelief in his voice. He takes one of the glasses, sipping it and savoring the taste. His eyes close slightly, the bitter-sweet bubbles pop on his tongue and he smirks hazily. When he opens his eyes again, Rivaille is watching him, not having taken a drink. 

“What happened to your lip?” 

“A German.” 

He half expects Rivaille to laugh at his attempt at humor, but of course he doesn't. Silence.

"Why were you here tonight Erwin?"

"I came to see Nana," he lies, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Rivaille's eyebrows shoot up, amused. He finally takes a drink of the champagne and keeps looking at Erwin as he sips from the glass. When he takes it away, there's a deep red, half-moon stain of lipstick on the rim. Erwin eyes it carefully.

"People usually believe you when you lie don’t they?”

“I’m not lying,” Erwin counters.

“Yes you are. You're shit at lying, at least in my opinion.”

Rivaille looks bored as he stares upwards, forcing Erwin’s gaze to remain on him.

"You came to see Nana, perhaps. But you also came to see me. I wondered when I would see you again."

Erwin takes another drink, licking his lips slowly, "Are you starting this again, Rivaille?" His voice is blessedly level, eyes focused.

The way Rivaille smirks, the slight curl at the corner of his mouth, sparks memory in Erwin he isn't prepared to feel. It's reminiscent, he thinks, of a past lover. When he would kiss them awake in the morning with his hands traveling over them, teasing their eyes open with flutters of fingers and sliding palms. He isn't one to wax poetic, he never has been, and he feels strange when these thoughts roll through his head like lapping waves. They almost don't feel like his own memories. He realizes, after a long moment, that it's because they are from a dream rather than reality.

“I’m not starting anything. I’m looking at the facts of what I see in front of me. You are here, yes? If you have a better explanation as to why you didn’t just leave after Nana’s performance, then I am quite interested to know it.”

Again, Rivaille is invading his personal space. Erwin remains firm, keeping his chin lifted and breathing even. His eyes never break their focus on Rivaille’s. He refuses.

“I thought I would share a drink with her.”

Rivaille laughs, dry, and it makes Erwin’s jaw flex.

“Is that why you left in the middle of _my_ performance then, when she was still backstage? You're a shit liar. Absolute shit.”

Erwin feels like he’s not in control for the first time in his life. He keeps his face stern for lack of a better reaction. Disappointed, he sets his glass aside, unable to enjoy the champagne anymore.

“Was it too much for you, Erwin? Did it get your cock hard?”

The words are piercing hot and patronizing all at once. They have Erwin raging silently. His tone is warning, “Rivaille…”

“Do you think I’m blind, Erwin? I could see the way you were looking at me. Is it because I was dressed as a woman? Did that make you want me more? I was looking right at you when I was rubbing my cock through these." He glances down between them at the lace panties he still wears. "I saw how you stared, how you fucking blushed.”

He’s standing dangerously close now, having moved again so undetectable that Erwin hardly notices his advance. It’s startling, and he’d step away if he knew it wouldn’t be interpreted as fear. So he holds his ground, not answering the onslaught of questions apart from his simple refusal.

“I _don’t_ want you.”

Rivaille’s eyes are bright now, showing the blue hue that hides behind the grey. They are practically glowing with frustration. Anger. Annoyance. A multitude of other things that even Erwin finds chilling to see in that intense gaze.

“You’re a coward. I’m certain that you think otherwise of yourself. But you are a coward for not admitting it,” he says slowly, words biting down and ripping at Erwin’s skin. “I know what it’s like for men to look at me and want me. I know that better than anything.”

He reaches out and grips at Erwin’s shirt, curling his fingers into the front of it. His strength is surprising as he guides Erwin to lean forward slightly. Erwin follows, his jaw tightening, as he’s careful not to look down at the smeared lipstick on Rivaille’s mouth. But he does anyway and it makes the saliva stick in his dry throat.

He's in a haze, as the thoughts rapidly go through his head. He thinks of Rivaille up on the counter, knocking the little vials and pots of make-up aside. He imagines gripping at that messy hair, making those heavy lidded eyes open wide as he finds where he likes to be touched. He wants to know if his singing voice is any indication of the sounds he makes when he moans.

“Kiss me, Erwin. And if you don't enjoy it then I might believe you,” Rivaille says, practically whispering but his voice is still challenging, gaze still intense.

For a moment, Erwin’s tongue gets stuck to the roof of his mouth it’s so dry. “No.” 

With his free hand he grips at Rivaille’s fragile wrist, not bothering to be gentle. He exerts all his frustrations on it, squeezing harder than he really needs to in order for Rivaille to get the point.

Rivaille’s mouth opens slightly and the realization of what the reaction means makes Erwin’s cheeks burn. He likes it. That rough grip. it wasn't just for the stage, those reactions had been true. 

There’s hardly space between them now. With the assistance of his heels, Rivaille manages to stand a little taller to Erwin’s height and the way he pulls him downwards makes it so that he can get their mouths situated close enough that their breath mingles in a shared space. 

Erwin’s breathing heavily through his nose, trying hard to keep his mouth shut. But he wants it. The thought crashes down on him and sends a shiver down his spine. His hand comes up slowly; fingers tentatively brushing Rivaille’s hip before he rests his palm flat against it. Then he presses his fingers down, guiding Rivaille forward. The smaller man gasps softly and the sound hits low in the pit of Erwin’s stomach. He pushes out a slow breath against Rivaille’s mouth, watching his eyelids lower even more as he does.

Neither of them have closed their eyes. They stare openly at one another like enemies calculating the next move to make in a fight. Erwin holds Rivaille’s wrist and hip like a vice, holding him in place so he can’t get away even if he tried. But Erwin only half believes that – that Rivaille wasn’t perfectly capable of escaping if he wanted to. The evidence is there in his stare.

Their lips nearly touch before there’s a knock at the door. 

“Erwin!” Nana calls.

Then tension falls away quickly and Erwin pushes Rivaille away.

“Erwin! This is important. We need you now, Hange is waiting in a car outside.”

If Rivaille is still staring, Erwin doesn't notice. He leaves Rivaille without giving him another look and follows Nana silently out to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The Carlingue was the French version of the Gestapo. When Nazi's arrived in France they established this with leadership made up of French criminals and public enemies. Henri Lafont and Pierre Loutrel were actual leaders of the Carlingue and were pretty awful people as shown by how much Erwin wants them dead.  
> -There was indeed a shortage of food (fresh fruit, cheese, and liquor) during this period. Tarte Tatin is made with apples, meaning that there was none available. And any fresh produce that was available would be sold out in stores immediately after being stocked. Champagne was one hundred percent inaccessible to any ordinary French citizen. The only people who might have had access were elites and German soldiers. And definitely not cabaret dancers, unless they got it from somebody else.  
> -The Cafe Rose is fictional, but historically by 1942 all Jewish own establishments had been resold to non-Jewish owners in France.  
> -Défense de la France was a real publication by Resistance leaders.


	4. Toucher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s unsure if he wants to wring Rivaille’s neck or lay at his feet, take him hard like he’s always dreamt of taking a woman and live out his desires between Rivaille’s thighs or flee from him like some devil who made landfall on earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are more warnings for this chapter that have been added to the tags so beware~ 
> 
> This was a difficult one to write in public. Let's just say that.

**\- Mars 1942**  -

The very first time Erwin Smith recognizes it, it’s with Kristoff Schafer. He lets himself look and he supposes that’s where it begins. That terrible time in his life where he would let himself drink in the naked bodies of men, let himself dream of touching them, kissing them, fucking them. 

Never making love. Making love was something meant for women, meant to be sacred and natural and beautiful. Having sex with a man was wrong, it was a sin, it was illegal. It was _fucking_. He’d determined that when he first fantasized about Kristoff Schafer at sixteen years old.

It’s no surprise then, that Erwin is terrific at hiding his identity. He’d had practice starting from that first time he came with a man’s name on his lips That was when he started to have to hide. He thought it would have been harder when he joined the army, but somehow it managed to get easier. 

He’d contentedly made love to women, held their hands and took them dancing. It was enjoyable; he got pleasure from their soft bodies and their delicate moans. He figured that perhaps one day, when this was all over and the war was settled into miraculous peace he’d get married to somebody sweet but fierce - the way Nana was. He’d forget all about Kristoff Schafer and the way he’d touched himself in his bed that night.

But then he’d been forced to flee. Then he’d exiled himself to France. Then the French surrendered. Then he’d become a rebel. Then he’d met Rivaille. 

But Erwin Smith is not a homosexual. He is not.

He sits at the table of the Café Rose, waiting for the arrival of the rest of his comrades. As usual, he’s the first to arrive after Hange. She dominates the conversation, speaking in slow English for his sake, but speeding into rapid French when Nana arrives.

“You’re being quieter than normal, Erwin,” Nana observes. 

With a sip of his coffee he speaks with confidence, “I’m tired, Nana. That’s all.”

Hange laughs, “No excuse for that. You should have come out with us. You haven’t since you went that night without inviting me. I’m still sore about that, Erwin.” She nudges his arm playfully. Nana is still looking him over, considering his words.

“I don’t know how much more I can apologize, Hange,” he says, entreating her with a soft smile before taking another gulp of the rapidly cooling coffee. It’s finally warmer again, back to a normal temperature for late winter in Paris. But it’s still cold enough that Erwin has to wear a coat outside. He’s even chosen to wear his hat, letting the wide brim cover his eyes from the passersby. 

“When are you coming back Erwin?” Nana asks, finally speaking. “Isabel has asked about you and she says that Rivaille has mentioned your absence.”

The name makes him freeze momentarily. Nana had no idea what she’d interrupted that night. She, as far as Erwin could see, had no idea that there was any tension between Rivaille and Erwin. Sexual or otherwise. That night he’d been plucked from the Ailes to have a conversation with a British soldier over radio. The lines of communication opened that night, formally, between Erwin’s band of soldiers and the allied forces. He’d only just gotten used to the idea that he’d been casually elected leader of the group. Though that much had been silently determined at least one year prior.

The optimism of their efforts, the help of the allies, were a blessed distraction. He’d mostly forgotten that night. Mostly. 

“Rivaille? That’s curious,” Erwin simply states. His tone suggests he doesn’t want to pursue the subject further. Nana understands this, Hange does not.

“You’ve got to recruit him, Erwin,” Hange says. She looks desperate, gripping the table dramatically. Coffee did a number on her as much as alcohol did.

“You and Nana seem to know him better than I do,” he retorts, studying her with a calm demeanor. This was a deflection of course. Below his chest his heart was thudding.

“Yes, but you’re the leader. We’ve both been trying for months, haven’t we Nana?” Hange turns to her for confirmation. Nanaba nods, glancing in Erwin’s direction again.

“I’ve been trying longer than that. He’d be an indispensable addition to our group.”

Erwin cocks an eyebrow, “He’s a fine entertainer I suppose, stubborn. But I don’t see-“

“You’ve never seen him in a fight,” Nana interrupts. Her voice is steady, eyes the same as they settle in the blues of Erwin’s. 

It’s reactionary, to ask what she means. Hange is the one who answers before he even has time to ask the question. She leans in conspiratorially, “Don’t judge him by his size, Erwin. Men that small who have survived that long unscathed ought to be feared. Especially in a business like his.” Her voice is ominous.

“A business like his? Nana’s business?”

Nana blushes, “No! No. Erwin I wouldn’t sell my body.”

He should have known, really. Rivaille had said as much the first time they met, but there was a difference between trading sex for English lessons and being a whore. Thoughts gather in his head, one after another. He wonders if he has a pimp. He wonders about the type of man he likes, if he has one at all. What his limits are like. Where he takes them when they make love. His fists clench on the table.

“My apologies, Nana,” he saves. “I never meant to insult you.”

“It’s alright,” she says quietly. Her eyes flick momentarily to Erwin’s balled fists and she speaks as if she means to soothe him. Her voice is level as always. “He’s not a prostitute the way you’re thinking. It isn’t so simple. He does get paid, but not always with money. I know it used to be protection. That was the trade he would make. Though I suppose you couldn’t say it was quite prostitution back then, not in so many words.”

Erwin swallows thickly, “What do you mean protection.”

Hange carries on where Nana leaves off, “Rivaille used to associate himself with street gangs. He doesn’t talk about his past much. At all, actually. I heard it from Isabel. They’ve been friends since they were young is what I understand, along with Farlan.”

Nana nods in agreement, indicating that their sources were the same. Erwin’s mind races towards the idea of Rivaille lying with murderers, with the criminals and the thugs he remembers oozing through the streets before the occupation. Now they were Carlingue. Erwin’s mind races even faster, towards the image of Rivaille making love to men from the Gestapo. He looks out towards the river.

“It’s not why we like him though, Erwin,” Hange cuts into his thoughts. “You should see him fight. I’ve only seen it once. A brawl started in the Ailes during his performance he jumped out into the audience to take on at least three men at once. He put them all down one by one in under a few minutes. They were all twice his size. It was almost supernatural.”

Nana gives her testimonial softly, “I wasn’t there for that but I’ve seen him fight before. He’s a better fighter than Mike and I are. He’s protected me when I couldn’t protect myself.”

Erwin would ask what she meant by that, if she hadn’t already turned away.

“With training we could have him go on missions with the three of you,” Hange interjects. She reaches down, smoothing her pants on her thighs. Erwin can’t think of a time he’s ever seen her in a skirt or dress. “I’m sure he knows how to fire a pistol.”

“I doubt he’d be very good at taking orders,” Erwin thinks out loud. It’s true. The thought of Rivaille deferring to his leadership is almost laughable.

“That’s what I mean by training. He’d listen if you taught him too,” Hange counters. Erwin refuses to let his mind stumble into inappropriate thoughts. “Everyone listens to you in the end, Erwin. We all trust you.”

Mike arrives eventually, sitting across from Nana and smiling at her sweetly before starting to speak. They’re alone outside, but they all speak in hushed voices. This is a meeting of sorts, whether they intend it to be or not. They discuss the status of two Jewish families they’ve helped escape, the printing press Dot has secured for the distribution of more falsified documents that they can control the sales of rather than that two faced criminals that sold them in the past. Nana talks about their ever growing contraband supplies stockpile. Erwin mentions his conversations with the men across the channel, how they want to coordinate strategy. Hange describes her development of a new explosive. Mike discusses their new recruits.

Once their operation had been two men with stolen rifles, homemade cyanide capsules in their teeth, and orders to carry out that were designated by nobody in particular. Now they were becoming a real army, a force to be reckoned with. Their presence was known and the Nazi’s were taking them seriously.

At noon when they all are walking home, they are not prepared to fight.

It’s Farlan Church who finds them, breathless from running and holding a pistol the pocket of his coat. He pants as he speaks, spitting blood into the gutter.

“There’s been a round up. We don’t know how many. But Jewish men were taken by the police.”

All look to Erwin, who merely nods in understanding. He knows what is happening now. He knows there is nothing to be done.

At night they decide to hold a meeting at the Ailes; after the show is over so only those with invitations are provided to stay and none will question their mass arrival to the location. 

They hold their tongues at the table. None, as brave as they all are, are brave enough to bring up the topic. The patrons who are there drink with weight on their shoulders, their hearts sinking with alcohol as the anchor. On any other occasion Erwin might have told them to slow down, ease off how much they consumed, but he lets them cope in their own ways.

None are foolish enough to believe that all those men weren’t as good as dead, but Erwin knows for certain that they are. He had heard what they did when they collected people and sent them off on those trains. Their fate was symbolized by the slaughter cars they rode in and not once, never once, had he heard of one single soul coming back.

And these men were chosen, plucked from their homes because of a decided set of criteria that they did not meet. They were too weak, too sick, employed in their wrong business or not employed at all. And Jewish, of course. 

He looks at Mike, who hasn’t seemed to have blinked in the last hour. 

Michel would have been taken away by those police. Michel would have been on a cattle car with some hellish destination. In all likelihood Michel would be, at present, somewhere getting processed. His name and birthdate and height and weight would be taken down for some file. Erwin had heard that they shave their heads and give them prisoner’s clothes to wear. He heard once, that they tattooed their identification number into their arms so they would never be able to take it off and escape.

Passover begins next week, he thinks. Mike calls it _Pesach_. 

Hange takes it upon herself to move the table to smiles again. Erwin is too within his own mind to pay attention to the stories she tells, but he makes sure to look over at Mike every now and again to ensure he’s smiling too. People are beginning to take their seats around them, preparing for the show to begin.

Erwin knows they have the ability to get Jewish families to the South. If they were taking men they would take more. They would get bold enough to take women and then children too, as they had in the east. But if his men were going to be orchestrating exodus, moving mass quantities of families, they would need help. They would need recruits.

When the curtain opens wide, he looks for Rivaille.

It’s foolish that he feels the pang of worry in his stomach when he scans the lineup and does not find him. More foolish still, that he’s entirely confident in his ability to find Rivaille no matter how he was dressed or made-up. His jaw is tight, eyes almost predatory as he looks about the room. Perhaps he’s just on edge, that’s what he tells himself at least, and it’s how he explains his fear. But as much as he knows the shape of Rivaille he does not know what fills him. He could be Jewish, too, for all he knew. A man in enterainemnt would have been a target. He could be taken. He could be having his body branded and Erwin wouldn’t be able to stop it.

He stands up; ignoring Hange’s questioning tone when she asks something he’s too preoccupied to hear. Over his shoulder he puts up a hand, a sign in the field when he’s alright and isn’t in need of assistance.

Nobody is backstage, they’re all gathered on stage for the opening act presumably and won’t return for the next seven minutes or so that their song will carry on. The piano is dull and the singing is almost haunting on the other side of the brick wall that separates the stage from the dressing rooms.

At the end of the hall, Rivaille’s door is slightly open, the sliver of light bright among the dulled lights of the backstage. He’d never seen it dark, every other time he’d been back it’d been brightly lit to signal the end of the performances. Now it’s eerie, oddly cold. The linear glow from Rivaille’s dressing room makes it all the more unsettling.

Above the swallowed sound of the music playing he can hear a sharp gasp. There are mumbled words and the sound of glass shattering on the ground. All quickly followed by the stomach churning scent of perfume on the air. 

Erwin moves swiftly, soundlessly, and quicker still at the undeniable sound of Rivaille’s voice.

“ _Salaud_.” Son of a bitch.

It’s a growl, breathless, and it sounds as if he’s struggling. There’s shuffling and then a hard thud, the choked sound of a whimper mingling with the hard sound of a grunt.

Erwin moves past the door and puts his back against the wall beside it. His breath is even, heartbeat level, as he gathers himself. With the slow crane of his neck, he turns his head and eyes to peer into the room through the crack. His hand on is on the blade he keeps in his pocket, holding the pearl handled blade in a way to strike when needed.

Rivaille is on the countertop, head pressed into the mirror behind him with his hair disheveled and ungreased. But he isn’t struggling to get away or fighting somebody off. He’s wrapped around the man who holds him in place, ankles hooked around his waist and fingers clawing into the skin of his back to draw him closer.

He cries out, eyes shut and lipstick smeared over his mouth as it makes an O around the moan he lets go. The man, somebody Erwin doesn’t recognize, is well dressed and well kept. Apart, of course, from the way his pants threaten to slip down his hips as they thrust into Rivaille.

Erwin won’t allow himself to react. He doesn’t gasp, he doesn’t turn away.

“ _Baise-moi_!” Rivaille pleads, growling. He's saying "fuck me". He spills out another moan against the man’s lips before he’s silenced with another kiss he can hardly keep up with. His wrists are caged by large hands and he whimpers again, turning his head to the side as they’re slammed up against the mirror behind him. 

The man is relentless, fucking into him with force that rattles the bottles on the counter, knocking them over and jostling Rivaille in a way that only seems to make him moan more. His neck is being attacked, by teeth and tongue until he’s shivering and whispering out in French so quietly Erwin can’t hear apart from words like _monsieur_ and _s'il vous plait_.

And Erwin’s chest is tight. His teeth feel like they might shatter under the force of his jaw and his hand is tight, choking the throat of the knife he holds. 

Rivaille is flushed, eyes closed, face open and reactive to the ministrations of the man who has clear possession of him. He’s entirely naked, and his pale skin is slick with sweat and red smudges where the man has transferred his lipstick to his body. 

It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. Erwin tells himself to look away but he can’t. He won’t allow himself miss a moment of it. 

When Rivaille’s eyes open, they catch Erwin’s immediately.

They’re heavy lidded, more than normal, and the grey is glassy as they meet Erwin’s blue. Erwin does not look surprised, shocked, embarrassed. Anything. He stares, face placid and calm as he looks Rivaille head on. Rivaille smirks after a moment of him not looking away, realizing that this is Erwin casting his die and the game he’s been playing all along has gained a willing partner. Willing, though not conscious of it yet.

That smirk goes down through Erwin’s stomach like a sudden drop, and straight to his cock.

It’s almost as if Rivaille is encouraged by the unabashed stare. Of course he’s encouraged, there’s no doubt about it when he puts in twice as much effort to looking positively wrecked under the hands of the man who holds him. He rolls his head back, eyes pouring into Erwin’s as he moans desperately.

He chokes out in French, “Harder. Fuck me until I scream.”

The man answers with a moan of his own. Erwin swallows hard. He’s snapping his hips even rougher, causing Rivaille’s thick, painted lashes to flutter.

“Use me.”

Harder, still. Erwin can’t feel his own breath as it fills his lungs.

“Use me. I’m yours. All yours.”

Rivaille’s eyes are sharp, watching for a reaction in Erwin’s face he’ll never be granted.

“Finish inside of me. I want to feel you dripping down my thighs when we’re done.”

Erwin grabs the handle and shuts the door. The cathartic act is enough to convince him to walk away. As the performers spill out from the stage door, he clicks his knife back into place. They acknowledge him with smiles, waves, some snickers and laughs as they must know why he’s there. Nana in particular seems happy to see him. He simply nods, trying to keep his eyes ahead.

He doesn’t realize how hard he is until he steps out into the main hall again.

On stage Oluo and Petra dance to a song he doesn’t recall. Petra is singing but he’s having a hard time translating her words. Strange, as only a moment prior he had no problem carving out the words “use me” from breathless French.

There’s no possible way he can go back to sitting with his friends. They don’t spot him when he reemerges from back stage, so he chooses to not make his presence known. Quickly he assumes a seat at an abandoned table in the crowd. 

Thankfully, Isabel brings him brandy without him having to ask. He purposely doesn’t thank her or look at her for more than the span of a heartbeat to show that he’s in no mood for conversation. But he takes out a bank note, putting it down on the table for her the next time she comes by.

His focus is only vaguely on the performances. There’s no hope salvaging his attention now. Typically he’s in control of his own arousal. He can think off an erection with disgusting thoughts, an act of his impeccable self-will.

So it’s out of the ordinary that he’s still hard in his pants by the time Nana is shedding her clothes in the middle of her song. He could have been aroused more by that. But every act, every song, every word, every thought he has is Rivaille. He sees Nana stripping down to her lace covered corset, but imagines Rivaille. Nana is running her fingers through the hair of the man at the piano, but Erwin can only visualize Rivaille gripping at that man’s hair as he thrust into him. There’s Nana singing into his ears, but all he can hear is Rivaille’s pleads, the soft whimper of his voice.

He considers leaving before Rivaille’s act, but he knows deep down that he wants to stay. His hand is resting neatly on his thighs over the material of his pants. The pit of his stomach seems weightless when he hears the first sounds of Rivaille’s voice kiss at his ears.

There’s no evidence that less than an hour before he had been viciously taken by a man in on the countertop of his dressing room. He wears a shorter wig this time, a long black peignoir that remains loosely tied so it exposes the scarlet corset underneath. Each time he walks, his leg is revealed with the high black stocking underneath, held up by sheer faith alone.

Erwin doesn’t even bother to listen to what he’s singing about as he takes his place at center stage. The tune is melancholy, but Erwin ignores the words. He watches Rivaille start his song, eyes low and painted with black around the rims so the grey is even more shocking in the light.

It’s much like the first night, where his voice like silk touches the audience the same way his own hands caress himself. He smoothes his palms, first, over the exposed parts of his neck, moving his head languidly with the feeling of a touch. They travel down over his clavicles, letting the peignoir slip down his right arm and reveal the skin of his shoulder to the crowd.

Erwin watches his mouth, the way it forms around the words like a kiss, how he takes soft breathes between verses and licks at the roof of his mouth during those pauses. 

It’s Erwin’s mouth on his now, feeling those red lips and catching the song he sings with his teeth. When Rivaille grips needily at his own waist it’s because Erwin’s hands are there already and he’s begging him wordlessly to take a rougher hold. When his head tips back it’s because Erwin has pulled him closer and has started to replace the poorly hidden bruises with some of his own. Bruises that will Rivaille will feel over the others, that will be darker and an angrier purple on his pale skin.

And when he sighs in the song it’s because he can’t hold back how utterly delicious it feels to have Erwin’s mouth on his throat. When Rivaille takes fistfulls of the peignoir it’s only because he wants Erwin’s hands below the material. He’s inviting him to feel over his skin, dip his fingers under the tops of his stockings and into the lace of his panties.

But Erwin isn’t touching anything, he realizes, but his own cock through his pants. His breathing hasn’t changed and he doesn’t blush or stare in a different way to reveal what he’s doing. He’s positioned perfectly in his chair, moving his arm so slowly, that nobody seems to notice. 

He should stop - he knows he should - but the way his imagination carries him off is hard to deny. With Rivaille on stage, singing like that, hands the way they are as they tease all over his own body. There’s no possible way he could stop, rationality is absent from his mind.

His palm digs desperate into the thickness of himself through the layers of clothes he wears. And it’s not his palm, it’s Rivaille, grinding his body against him as he’s pressed hard to Erwin’s chest. And it’s not the slow drag of it; it’s the way Rivaille audaciously writhes underneath him when he has him pinned to the floor. And when Rivaille rolls his body on stage to the slow music being played behind him, transitioning now into dance, he’s only moving because Erwin is rolling his hips into him. 

Rivaille can see him in the crowd again; the way he smirks slowly as dances towards his side of the stage is indication enough. Their eyes catch again, and this time they do not part. Rivaille is singing at him now, this show, once meant for all is suddenly Erwin’s entirely. 

It makes the way his hand passes over his cock all that much more intense. So much so that he has to press his tongue against the roof of his mouth to keep himself from letting out a shaking breath. It holds in his chest, mingling with the lightness of his stomach and the dragging sensation downward towards his erection.

Rivaille sings something but all Erwin can hear is the filth he spewed in his dressing room. The filthy words and pleads. Use me. He wonders if the man finished inside of him as he demanded. He wonders if the peignoir was chosen to hide the way Rivaille could feel him dripping down his thighs just the way he wanted. 

And damn Rivaille for smiling. Damn him for knowing exactly what he’s doing. Erwin feels the blush in his cheeks blooming as he speculates if Rivaille can tell the way he toys with himself below the table, if he knows that he’s playing fantasies behind his eyes about making him cry out and moan Erwin’s name around the misplaced tune of the song.

He’s unsure if he wants to wring Rivaille’s neck or lay at his feet, take him hard like he’s always dreamt of taking a woman and live out his desires between Rivaille’s thighs or flee from him like some devil who made landfall on earth.

When Rivaille’s song ends, Erwin slumps down in his chair slightly, feeling spent although he never brings himself to completion. Rivaille’s eyes are still on his, even as he takes his curtsey – they only take position under his eyelashes as he looks Erwin straight on. When he disappears off the side of the stage, Erwin gets to his feet. 

He walks quickly out of the room, picking his cigarettes off the table and disappearing into the courtyard with a quiet promise to return to his comrades who question his absence.

The immediate cold, with his disregard of his jacket and coat, is enough to shock him into calming down. His erection wanes slightly and he distracts himself by lighting a cigarette with steady hands, putting it between his lips, and sucking in the smoke like it was the cure for the thoughts that plagued him. There’s no snow in the courtyard, but the chill of the air is enough to keep the patrons inside. Erwin is grateful for that.

He chooses not to sit; instead he leans against the brick of one of the encasing walls. It’s freezing on his back through his thin shirt, but it aids his slowly advancing calm. The silence of the night is exactly what he needs. Through the soundproofed walls he can’t hear the music from inside.

He doesn’t see Rivaille again that night. Or the next day. And two weeks pass before they see each other again. It's in part a result of the grace of responsibility and in part Erwin’s resilience. Erwin is grateful. He reminds himself of that every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -In mid-March 1942 the Nazi's rounded up almost 2,000 Jewish men over the course to two days to be sent to concentration camps.  
> -Most people had no idea what the protocol what for concentration camps were, but Erwin's time in Austria puts him in the know above most other people.  
> -Erwin's contact with the Allies is reflective of the British and American forces reaching out to Resistance leaders during this time.  
> -Toucher is French for touch. s'il vous plait is French for please.


	5. Frontières

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Le désir est un compagnon de lit de la violence. Desire is a bedfellow of violence. I read that once in a poem. A man who can kill is a man who can take what he wants, hm? But not you, Erwin. Are you so afraid when you are not afraid to kill and risk death? You’ve already admitted you want me, mon dieu, what’s stopping you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get out. I had some major life events that made writing a little difficult to focus on. I just wanted to get this chapter out before I head into finals. Thanks for reading!

- **Avril 1942** -

“I can’t leave the Ailes for that long, Sir,” she says softly, her French is thicker and Erwin can tell she is from the country. Her red hair is curled neatly, soft resting on her cheek. She glances at Oluo. Without the guise of her costume she appears like any other woman might, a long black skirt and simple cream colored blouse.

“Petra, it’s alright,” Erwin replies calmly in French. His fingers caress the long line of Seine, following her curves through the cut of green she makes on the map. When she reaches the channel she disappears into the expanse of cloudy blue. His eyes go to Petra, to Oluo, and the others who look eagerly on, waiting for how he will cast their fates. “You’ll be cleared from your duties there. They’ll suffer one night without your talents.”

She shifts nervously on her feet and then nods with downcast eyes.

“Petra can’t be away! What about our act!” 

Erwin’s eyes snap, cold and blue and unforgiving, to Oluo’s face. The older man is scowling with a face like a Greek drama mask. His accent is thicker than hers, Southern. Erwin sets his jaw, slicking his throat to speak. In the meantime Oluo seems to reconsider his exclamation.

“Our strongest fighters must be the nearest to Paris,” he starts, commanding the man nearly ten years his senior. “And you, Petra.” He nods towards two of the others. “The rest of you have come along. You aren’t our strongest. You are unaccustomed to our work and it is not to say that I do not have faith that you are capable. But a good fighter is made from experience, preparation. I don’t have the time to train you, nor take you on any other missions to get you ready for this.”

Oluo is looking down at his neat brown oxfords; he kicks at a nail sticking up from the floorboard. Gunther smiles curtly, “We accept your judgment, commander. You will do what is best and we in turn will do our best.”

He speaks in French, despite his German origins; broken and heavily accented, but the attempt is a great act of respect that echoes through the room. People are nodding, the small crowd of twenty, in agreement to Gunther’s words. Erwin stares on, feeling his heart beat hard in his chest at their reverence he feels he has not earned.

“Yes,” he nods. “Yes, thank you Gunther. At dawn we’ll leave the city and take our places at the established meeting points.” He glances at Dot. “You’ll be here, at this apartment so the families can retrieve their documents. We’ll pass along the torches until they reach our comrades in the south, who will escort them into Swiss territory.”

They’d chosen to call the families torches as a code word. Poor Jews, Jews with criminal records. Targets. Mike gives Nana a nod, barely noticeable, and gives the same to Erwin after tearing his eyes from her soft smile.

“Zackly will not be pleased,” Isabel laments. She looks up, frightened, as if she hadn’t realized she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. Erwin regards her with a reassuring nod.

He’d come to know the owner of the Ailes very well over the past two months. After all, it was he that first allowed his beloved club to become the mecca for revolutionaries and that wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t one himself. Over the course of that time their correspondence had increased. After the night, that night, when they held their first meeting in the Ailes and over half his staff stayed to participate as well as he, Erwin considered him an ally.

“Zackly has been consulted on this. I assure each of you that, despite how much convincing it took, he will go so far as closing the doors of the Ailes.”

Erwin isn’t expecting the loud response of worry and thinly veiled protest.

Nana leans in and speaks softly, “Erwin closing the doors means loss of wages. We’re not paid on salary; we’re paid a cut of what we make in ticket and drink sales.” Even Nana, calm as a spring rain, looks unsettled by the potential of losing money.

“Rivaille wouldn’t allow us to close the doors,” Oluo pipes up again. Even Eld, quiet as he is, mutters an agreement.

“What’s Rivaille got to do with any of this?” Erwin keeps his face steady, looking down at his maps.

“He doesn’t support this cause, Erwin,” Hange says slowly. “He’s their manager. Zackly owns the club but he maintains the show. And if he doesn’t support the cause then…well he wouldn’t let his entire staff disappear off into the night and leave him penniless.”

Erwin’s jaw flexes, he looks to her with his eyes as cold as ever, considering her words, “He has other means of income. You’ve all made that clear and so has he. I’ll pay for him if he’s so upset by it.”

The entire room is silent for a moment. After all, they’d seen him backstage, they must have known. He glances up, chasing away their eyes with an icy stare. “And he can sit at home and have a free night to himself.” 

It’s decided that Farlan, Isabel, and Petra will give notice to the families in the meantime. They were the youngest looking of the group, and it was important not to draw attention from the police if they come and go from the ghetto.  When they leave with their assignments, most follow them out the door, knowing that their work won’t start until morning. Gunther stops before he goes to shake Erwin’s hand. 

His kitchen table seats four, Pixis and Shadis stand at the sides of Nana and Mike, dutiful as they are.

“This isn’t enough,” Erwin says finally, setting down his pencil gently and neatly following a point of longitude through the Parisian city center.

Hange looks up slowly, “It is enough, Erwin. You are right to do this.”

Erwin shakes his head, looking around at the face of each of his comrades that remain, “We need to do more. Fifty-eight people are not enough to salvage what will be done to those that have already been taken.”

All are quiet then, reflecting on two thousand lives. They’d received the numbers of those that had been taken sometime after their meeting two weeks ago. The city didn’t know, not many who weren’t Jewish seemed to even care that so many had gone lost.  But those lives, two thousand souls who would be ripped from their bodies in whatever manner was seen fit. Erwin couldn’t attest to what was being done, nobody could. The rumors, the rumors were enough to strike fear into any who heard them. The Nazi’s were wicked enough for them to be true.

“Fifty-eight lives is a start, Erwin. Even one life makes a difference,” Nana says slowly. She reaches her hand out on the table but doesn’t mean for it to reach Erwin’s. As if the outstretched fingertips on the map would be enough to show solidarity. And it is. In a way.

He looks at her fingers, and then to Mike, who is nodding slowly.

“Dot and I have the equipment necessary to help more leave,” Shadis interjects. Dot follows up his words, “And I’m positively beside myself with excitement ready to use that new print press. The plan in place is solid. You work here is well done, Smith.”

Hange looks at Erwin, “It will get worse Erwin. I know you know that and that it is why you do all this.”

Shadis leans his hand on Erwin’s chair, “I had always wondered why you stayed, Smith. You could have left, gone back to England if you’d wanted.”

The observation makes his hands still, nails press into the flesh of his palms. He glances towards Shadis, meeting his eyes slowly and calculatedly. Enough to make Shadis lean away as if Erwin meant to jump up and bite him, that coldness that resides in his gaze like a predators.

But he feels no anger, nothing that truly consuming apart from the quiet fear of his true identity being discovered by his newest members of the commanding force.

“I have no home, Shadis,” he says. “England might have been my home perhaps, many places might have been my home. But Paris is where I will stay. I know a worthy cause, and the place where need is great is as good as my home.”

“You _are_ English, though, aren’t you my friend?” Pixis asks, leaning forward slightly over the expanse of Paris on paper below him.

Erwin nods slowly, “In blood perhaps. But not in allegiance.”

“Every man has allegiance, Smith,” he pries, eyes widening and relieving the crow’s-feet wrinkles of their stress.

“The resistance,” He says. He points to the Cross of Lorraine, red and proud on the white of the French flag. “This is the flag to which I swear my allegiance. Perhaps it is not traditional like yours might be, but it is where my pride lies.” Once it might have been red broken by pure white. He could remember carrying it proud on his breast. 

Hange pours wine for the group before they depart.  Erwin sip graciously from his cup the stolen drink – Nana had swiped it from a group of soldiers on a mission - and it stains his lips a tinge red like the others. They laugh and smile, Hange scrubs her teeth with her fingers but they’re too far gone to get clean. Mike’s in stitches over it, everyone is. And for a moment they forget about the task to come. Nana kisses Mike on the cheek when they’re about to leave and Erwin watches them catch eyes for a moment. Shadis cuts the moment short by walking between them.

The silence of the flat is poured full with soft music from the radio in the corner. Erwin sets about cleaning the glasses from the table, careful to sop up any of the misplaced wine from his maps. The place is so small that it’s not much work to travel back and forth from the kitchen to the main room over and over.

In fact it’s all somewhat one room. The small kitchen is separated from the main room by an archway, the bed sits in the main room only a few feet from the table. He never bothers with a sofa of any kind. It’s pointless really, considering he rarely entertains outside of the small meetings of his comrades. He does love the place, as much as anyone could. He may not have a home in a country or in a flag, properly, but this tiny flat was his home.

He’s stripped down to his undershirt and his trousers, padding barefoot across the rough wooden floor when he hears somebody coming down the hall outside the door. Silently, he takes account of his pistol at his bedside, marking one, two, three bullets inside the chamber.

When they knock, he moves gracefully, not making so much as a creak in the floor boards.

“Who is it?” He asks through the door.

“Erwin Smith you bastard, open your damned door,” the voice on the other side bellows out in heavily accented English. Immediately recognizable to Erwin’s ears. 

He opens the door quickly and stares at Rivaille with a slight furrowed brow, “Rivaille how on earth did you find out where I lived?” His presence steals the air from Erwin’s lungs. His name rolls over in his mind. _Rivaille_. He chases it away until everything is clear again.

“Half the club was here earlier, I asked for directions.” The smaller man pushes past, and for once he looks entirely ordinary. The wide brim of his hat sits over his eyes and of course, of course, he hasn’t bothered to take it off. He doesn’t wear a coat, simply a black jacket and black trousers. It takes absolutely every part of Erwin not to stare at the entirely outdated necktie he wears tucked into his vest.

“You fuck, do you really think you can take away half the show and I wouldn’t come to stop it?”

Erwin cocks his eyebrow. It’s strange to hear the silk of that voice knotted up the way it is. “Rivaille?”

He takes off his hat finally and hangs it on the knob of one of the chairs. He grabs on to the back with both hands and looks at Erwin, dead in the eye, with a stare that could stop a man’s heart. Last he saw that gaze it had been enough to force his hand over himself. He hides his trepidations with calculated ease. 

“You’re not shutting down the Ailes. Even for a night. Over my dead body.” He looks angry, properly angry, but in the same sort of subtle way he always shares all his other emotions. 

“Rivaille,” Erwin is calm enough for the both of them. “I need those recruits. They’re integral to our mission. We’re saving lives. Isn’t that important to you?”

Rivaille considers this, pressing his lips into a thing line and giving Erwin a calculating look, “And what about all of the performers, hm?” He adds emphasis to that word to ensure Erwin is aware of their true occupation outside of their revolutionary inclinations. “What do their lives matter to you? Petra Ral? Isabel? Are you a fool?”

He knows the mission is dangerous; he certainly doesn’t need Rivaille’s reminder. But the defense that rouses in his voice over the newly recruited young ladies. “Petra is more than satisfactory when handling a rifle. And a pistol for that matter. Her hand to hand combat skills are impressive. And Isabel is leagues beyond even some of our strongest. They’re a lot more capabl-“

“I know they’re both capable, that’s not what I mean,” he snaps, voice low. He releases the chair and turns away, looking around the room and moving about to inspect it. “You’re all fools. If you think this matters.” There’s a shift and Erwin isn’t certain if they’re on the same topic anymore.

Regardless, Erwin can feel the taste of Hange’s voice in his mouth, “It matters to the people we save.”

Rivaille runs his finger over the dust on the window sill, he huffs a short laugh and looks back at Erwin. Without any make up to enhance their color, his eyes seem cloudier than ever. It’s strange to see him clean faced and it makes him look tired. There are dark circles under his eyes, his cheeks are a different sort of red, blotched but somehow still pretty though they aren’t neatly painted on. It’s a blessing that there’s no lipstick on that mouth.

“It’s a lost cause.”

"Nothing is a lost cause until you let it go." Erwin crosses the room, leaning near the door frame to the kitchen.

"That’s a sentiment for fools and fanatics," he keeps his eyes on Erwin , then glances out the window. "You ought to let it go, Erwin. Some causes are better off lost." He pauses for a moment, staring down at the street. “You’re going to get yourselves all killed,” his voice is stern, chin lifted slightly to show his resolve, though he’s not looking at Erwin when he does it.

Erwin nods, considering this, “Then at least we will have died for a cause.” 

Grey eyes go back to him. The disgust that colors Rivaille’s face shows mostly in the darkening of their color, “And what about the people who follow you?” He means Isabel, Farlan, the rest of the performers.

“They will die for a cause too, if it comes to that.”

“You’re an overly brave, stupid bastard. They’re even more the fools to follow you.”

“I am,” Erwin says plainly. He drinks Rivaille in, and it’s clear that what he hears isn’t the response he expects. He’s quiet, looking back at Erwin. The realization that Rivaille is standing near his bed, now hitting him in waves. He’s here. He’s in his flat. They’re alone. They’re together.

“You have a creepy stare,” Rivaille says and it causes Erwin to catch himself suspended mid-air in his own daydream. “And you stare a lot more than you should. Offer me something to drink. If you’re stealing them away from me I want to know your plans.”

Erwin certainly can’t argue; he’s much too busy trying to keep his heartbeat even, his thoughts in the light of his mind. They are two men discussing battle plans. They are nothing more.

Rivaille finally shrugs off his jacket, folding it neatly over the chair. Erwin asks him what he’d like, but he’s distracted, looking over the maps. His small fingers follow the lines drawn by Erwin, tracing over the same spots he’d been tracing over early. The image of their fingers following one another sends a strange, unwarranted shiver down Erwin’s spine.

Finally Rivaille speaks, “Something strong. Wine. I don’t care.” His lip is pressed into a thin line as he studies their plan of attack. The other hand is in a fist, pressed knuckle-down into the lacquered wood of the table.

Erwin brings back a glass for the both of them, freshly dried and put away from his earlier visitation. He gives the glass to Rivaille by leaning across the table and setting it beside him. Absently, Rivaille takes a kerchief from his pocket and wipes the rim. He speaks, looking down at the maps still, “I assume this is why you’re closing the doors to my show? Because you want to send half of my acts outside of the city?”

His fingers press down into the red marked dots, one for Petra, one for Oluo, Eld, Gunther; Rivaille had no idea which dots belonged to whom. His eyes flick up to Erwin’s expectantly. In truth, the way it had been explained to him, Rivaille doesn’t seem to have the authority to claim them as his acts. However, the intonation in his voice when he says it leaves little to be argued.

“They’ll only be gone for a few nights. Starting tomorrow morning they’ll all leave. Most by horse. It’s easier that way; they can stay off the roads. When the family arrives they’ll ensure they’re led to the next along the chain and then return back to the original place to wait for the next family.”

Rivaille’s face hardly changes, listening, but he does nod, “And how long will they be gone?”

“A week, but I’m certain they will return quite tired. They’ll have very little time to rest during the mission,” Erwin explains. He watches Rivaille splay his hand over the breadth of the city of Paris. Though he’s had the opportunity to see them before, he properly studies his hands. His fingers are longer than he imagined, but as narrow as he expected them to be. They’re so small; again, expected, but astounding nonetheless when seen up close.

“They’ll have shelter I assume? Where will they stay when waiting for their charges?”

“The torches – the families – will meet them at a rendezvous point. Churches and inns for the most part. We have many allies, Rivaille, even if we do not have you.”

There’s a remarkable bitterness into the thin press of Rivaille’s lips. So blushed even without their lipstick to color them. “And who will lead them out of the city?” His eyes are entirely on Erwin’s now. Narrowed slightly and it’s clear he’s still upset with Erwin’s decision.

“I will. Mike will flank me through the city, he’s good with stealth.”

Rivaille laughs low, part way under his breath, “I doubt that very, very much. He’s mess of limbs, gangly like a… _faucheux_.” He waves his hand through the air, the word in English never being quite caught.

“What’s that?” Erwin asks.

“Tsh, one of those spiders with the long legs. You have those in England don't you?” he says back, seemingly annoyed that he was forced to explain at all. Erwin can’t hold in his smile at the comparison and he even manages to chuckle. Rivaille takes notice of the curve of his mouth.

“He’s tall, yes, but I don’t doubt him,” Erwin nods, glancing down at the map again to ignore the gaze heating his lips. The last time they’d seen one another…

 “You’re brave in every way but one, aren’t you, Erwin?” 

He knows he shouldn’t dare to look up, but to not meet the eyes can feel on his face is like admitting truth in Rivaille’s words. Slowly, he raises his chin and looks down at Rivaille, who remains leaning slightly over the table.

“If you came here for this, Rivaille, I’m going to ask you to leave,” Erwin explains plainly. There’s strength in his voice, authority. No part of his tone seems to strike in Rivaille, though, and the smaller man rolls his eyes.

“You’ll never come back to the Ailes now will you? Probably for the best. Certainly I wasn’t the only one to notice what you were doing beneath your table.”

His tongue cuts and slices, leaving Erwin feeling raw. Heat rises in his cheeks along with something that feels like resentment. It’s showing in his eyes, in his blue stare, but Rivaille seems hardly affected. He drinks leisurely from his glass, savoring the wine before swallowing slow and baring his neck to show Erwin as he does.

“Get out, Rivaille. I’m not discussing this,” he says, forcing himself to look away from Rivaille’s throat. Pale, smooth.

“Why not, Erwin?” Rivaille presses, his eyes are hooded. 

“Rivaille get out.”

“You could die tomorrow, _soldat_. In a life like yours? And why not allow yourself pleasure before you are dead.” The accent is his voice is like the slide of a hand over skin, the press of fingers into where it’s softest. Erwin sets his jaw.

Rivaille simply goes on, “Nobody is here. Nobody will see. You can kiss me, do whatever you please. I’d let you have me the way that other man did since you liked it so much. It may not be my dressing room, but…” There’s a smile on his voice and Erwin feels like the mouse between Rivaille’s paws. He hasn’t moved from the other side of the table but he can feel his closeness. His words like kisses to the side of his neck.

“Rivaille. Go.” His nails are pressed into the wood of the table, holding on like it will save him from going to him now.

“ _Le désir est un compagnon de lit de la violence_. Desire is a bedfellow of violence. I read that once in a poem. A man who can kill is a man who can take what he wants, hm? But not you, Erwin. Are you so afraid when you are not afraid to kill and risk death? You’ve already admitted you want me, _mon dieu_ , what’s stopping you?”

The words pour out like blood from a wound and it’s the way Rivaille speaks that makes Erwin feel wounded, “The distinction is, Rivaille, is that I am not a killer. I am a soldier. A man who kills to kill is a killer and I do not kill for pleasure or for some kind of violence I cannot control. I kill for duty, and when I must kill it is with restraint.”

Rivaille bites back, “There’s no such thing as restraint in murder, for duty or not. The lion kills to hunt out of survival, but there is a part of his nature that gives him pleasure to feel his teeth sink into flesh. You may think you have control, but it is a lie you tell yourself to keep yourself from turning into a nightmare. It’s not a bad thing I suppose, to tell yourself that lie. But it is a lie.”

“That is not true, Rivaille. And how would you even know such a thing? What do you know about being a soldier?”

Rivaille rears back then, scowling, “What makes you think that you are the only one to kill because you were made to?”

Silence hits like a summer storm and Erwin can hardly speak. It’s Rivaille he pulls through the clouds, looking at Erwin with a harsh half-lidded stare. He drinks again, licking his lips, “You are blinded by how determined you are, trying to save a world that does not have anything in it worth saving. It’s charming, I suppose, that you have such goodness in your heart. A hero, like a prince in the storybooks, but that is a story, Erwin. I’m not talking about how hard I get your cock now; I’m discussing something much more important.”

Erwin wants to speak, but when he opens his mouth Rivaille raises his voice. Not into a shout, but out of its smooth somber tone to authority that even Erwin finds himself respecting, “Don’t interrupt me, old man. Listen. Ask yourself what you’re grasping onto in this world. What the hell is it that you’re trying so hard to save you’re willing to put my performers’ lives in danger.”

Rivaille doesn’t take the time to put on his hat or jacket before leaving.

And Erwin doesn’t sleep even once through the night.

When they meet in the courtyard of the Ailes there are still stars in the slate colored sky. Each is dressed in clothes for travel; the ones using horse for transport have tall boots and heavy coats for the colder nights they will ride in.

Erwin sits at the makeshift command table nearest to the door. He gives maps to the individuals with Farlan’s help. As the group makes preparations to depart, Erwin sets about sharpening his knife. He works carefully, making the edge as thin as he can. He can’t afford for the blade not to tear the skin inaccurately, to not cut the chords in their throat would leave them room to scream and a scream could mean arrest. It could mean failure.

Farlan watches him, his blonde hair tucked into a flat cap, “You ought to show me how to sharpen a blade like that. I’ve never seen it done that way, commander.”

It’s the first time Farlan uses the term with him and his thick French makes the words uneasy in his mouth. Erwin glances up, looking the boy in the eye. He’s only slightly younger than Erwin, really, perhaps only by six years or so, putting him in his mid-twenties. He wonders how close in age he is to Rivaille. After all they knew one another in their youth.

The thought sinks in like ink into water, unfurling and curling inside.

“I will, Farlan,” he says, responding to him in French. “When we return from the mission. And in exchange, I’d like to hear about where you grew up. You, Rivaille, and Isabel.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -mon dieu means my god  
> -frontières means border lines  
> -the "red broken by pure white" is a reference to the flag of Austria


	6. Héros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have great pride in my heart, that you have found me worthy. That you see me as a leader to you all. And my pride lies most of all in you. In your strength and in your success. You have risen from the places that society has damned you to. I know this because I understand this. I can see it in your eyes that you have every reason to turn your back on this world. Yet you hope. You believe in what is right and you see something worth saving in the world that shunned you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm bad at prioritizing. Finals may have took a backseat to this chapter.
> 
> ***warning for mentions (short and not detailed) of non-consensual sex***

- **Avril 1942** -

They celebrate at the Ailes, of course. The club is closed to the public, but it's filled to the brim with joyous operatives after their successful mission moving the families south. The last of their men had returned that morning, tired and pushed beyond their limits, but successful. For most it was cause for celebration, pride and adrenaline rushing their bodies like a drug. For Erwin it as hardly so enjoyable. On his shoulders a heavy sense of foreboding lingered, making him stiff and anxious. The sense that this mission went almost  _too_  well.

Zackly pushes him brandy from across the table, "Go on then, Smith. Enjoy yourself." He speaks in English, poorly, but it's the way that he speaks that makes it sound so good. His glasses reflect the candlelight from the table as do his teeth when he grins luminous. "This is all thanks to you."

"Darius..." Erwin starts to protest, putting up his hand, with dirt still under his nails no matter how hard he scrubs.

"I know it is your favorite, this brandy. Go on." He manages to situate the glass right under Erwin's nose. Of course he can hardly resist any more of an invitation than the smell of it sticky bitter in his nose. Hange laughs when he ardently sips at the rich alcohol, licking his lips of what remains. He cocks an eyebrow towards her.

"Brandy is mother's milk to you isn't it, Erwin?" she asks around a giggle. It jostles Petra, who sits perfectly nestled in her lap. The younger girl has her hair in loose curls, lips painted a rosy pink. She grins and squirms about in Hange's lap, charmingly drunk.

"Hange, please! I've been on a horse for four days I could hardly handle any more of this!" she calls in French, laughing and wrapping her arms around Hange's neck to steady her. The two women giggle with each other, keeping their faces close and shrouded by the wall of Petra's red hair and the cloud of sweet smoke from Hange's cigar. Zackly is the only one with a full view, and he looks on with repugnance. Erwin feels the stare as if it's on him; lets it prickle down through his throat and settle in his stomach heavy.

Shadis breaks the silence with a curse. " _Baiser_!"

All four, and Gunther, who walks up just as he shouts, look to him startled by the exclamation. He holds his hand, looking at the glass in front of him like prey. Hange laughs cheerfully, "Keith I told you, you won't be able to use that hand for a few weeks at least. It's broken."

So perhaps, the mission wasn't entirely perfect.

"I hate his thing," he mumbles in French, trying desperately to move his hands in the wrapped cast and splint Hange concocted for him.

Oluo comes up behind Gunther, looking smug, "Perhaps you shouldn't have fallen off your horse then, hm?" 

Shadis glowers at him, heavily wrinkled forehead scrunching up in a way Erwin didn't think it could. He's looking on as he’s trying his best to hide a grin. The bald man looks away, staring at the slowly rising bubbles in his glass, "She spooked. It wasn't my doing. I had to protect that little girl in the saddle with me."

"Well, you did well enough I suppose. Her hand wasn't broken when I got her on her feet."

Gunther gives Oluo a warning look, but it's Petra that speaks. She frowns, turning slightly in Hange's lap to look him in the eye, "Oluo stop being like that, we are trying to have a celebration."

Again the attention of the group shifts, to Oluo from Shadis and the way he pokes at his swollen hand. He shrinks a bit, under all those eyes, and looks away indignantly. "You really did do well, Shadis. It's impressive you rode back with your hand broken."

Petra looks satisfied and goes back to giggling with Hange. Erwin watches them again, drinking from his glass. He makes room at the table for the new arrivals, letting them discuss club business and if they ought to open the Ailes for four nights out of the week instead of three with all the business they've got. Hange promises, of course, to be present every night she can and seems ecstatic with the idea of seeing Petra. To show it she kisses the younger woman's cheek and calls her  _colombe_ in soft voice. At Erwin's inquisitive look he's told that this means "dove".

Louis, the man from Rivaille's act, and Erd are on stage playing piano and trumpet in perfect harmony. The tables are cleared from the very center so people can dance on the floor, which they take full advantage of. The songs are slow, bordering on sensual and slipping farther and farther into the downright erotic. Until they're caught with a jovial tune that makes the floorboards bounce with the steps of the dancers. Erwin smiles outright, ignoring the discussion around him, as soon as he spots Nanaba and Mike chest to chest on the floor. He holds her hand in his with his neck craned down to look her in the eye. Nana looks up at him, eyes wide like she's surprised to be treated like such a delicate thing.

Their eyes never leave one another’s; never to check their surroundings or address the twenty other couples on the floor around them. During a swell in the song, when the piano presses even the cockles of Erwin's heart open to the music, he watches their eyes change. Mike reaches down, cradling her hair so the blonde pokes out through the cracks of his fingers, and lifts her gently to her tip toes so he can place a soft kiss on her open mouth. They stop dancing, frozen in place as their mouths meet. It seems chaste, when in comparison to the music that swirls around them, through them.

Erwin doesn’t mean to, when he thinks of Rivaille. Certainly he's a fine dancer; perhaps he might not mind taking the role of the woman because of his inclinations. He isn't certain of that, but he imagines it anyway. His hand on Rivaille's delicate waist, his smaller hand nestled in his other. The way he might lean into his chest to get his bearings, the way other dance partners he had would do against his height. The way he would look up from his heavy lashes, slate blue-grey, and ask him to come closer. How they might kiss slowly, not even realizing their rhythm matching the beat of the song playing behind them. And when they pull apart Rivaille might be looking up with his eyes a bit wider, bluer than they normally are. And perhaps he'd smile. 

 "I knew it would happen," Hange says finally, in English, meaning she directs the vocalized thought towards Erwin. He’s woken from his day dream with a twitch of his hands on his glass. When his eyes go to her he manages not to look like he’s been caught doing something wrong. She giggles, "Nana's been crazy about him for years."

"She's told you?" Erwin asks. Nana is possibly one of the most reserved people he knows. For her to be so blunt would be somewhat out of character. In Erwin’s eyes it’d been obvious; perhaps he wasn’t the only one to notice.

"Mm yes. In her own sort of Nanaba way. From what I deducted she'd been in love with him since before we met them," she says, turning her head to the couple as they make their way off the floor. Nana leads him backstage, clearly not feeling the eyes on them as they depart. Erwin nods an affirmative as he watches them go, "Mike's felt the same from what I've gathered."

They share a soft smile and then Hange laughs loud, jostling Petra again.

"Commander," he hears in familiar, thick French and Hange looks to him to see who it is that that’s called him. It's strange to be known by such a title, however unofficial it might be, and he doesn't always find himself immediately responsive to it.

Farlan stands beside him, pale brown hair a mess as it always was. He seems tired, slightly more drunk than he ought to be, but his stance is straight and eyes clear. "I thought maybe we could discuss what you asked to know about me. Unless..." He looks at Petra and Hange specifically, glances at Zackly, then returns his eyes against just as Petra goes about giving delicate kisses to Hange's cheeks.

"Unless I'm busy? No, Farlan, I'm not busy in the slightest," he says, standing up with brandy in hand.

They make a short walk to the corner of the club, taking a seat at one of the tables and lighting a cigarette each. Farlan takes a long drag that Erwin finds strangely impressive. The younger man looks at him, cheeks hollowed as he holds the smoke in his lungs, "What do you want to know?"

Erwin drinks, and then takes a drag of his own cigarette, "I'd like to know about your life when you worked with Pierre Loutrel. Isabel said you were associated, that she was associated specifically, but I had my guesses. How did you come to work with him? Is that how you met her and Rivaille?"

Farlan's eyebrow rises slightly, proving Erwin right about the work with Loutrel, "And what's so important about all that?"

"Pierre Loutrel is head of the Carlingue," he says, quickly switching to English, not knowing how to quite translate with integrity. "Know thine enemy," he says.

The younger man looks far from impressed at his call to famous literature, mostly, due to the fact that he didn't understand his English in the slightest. Erwin repeats it in French, weakening the strength of his words. Farlan nods, still appearing to not care much for the adage at all. He fiddles with his lighter as he speaks. It’s a nervous sort of repetition that leads Erwin to believe that he’s not used to discussing the events of the past. Erwin feels sympathy, but presses him onward with an encouraging nod.

"I grew up...in an orphanage," he says slowly, careful of how fast he chatters off in French for Erwin's sake. "Izzy, came to be like a sister. She was in the girl’s wing, I was in the boy’s. When we were younger we'd sneak back and forth to talk. I was left there as a baby and so was she, so we pretended sometimes that we were actually related and our parents were the same people. Stupid kid stuff."

His eyes go out to the floor, and Erwin follows them to where Isabel is dancing. She has Dot in a spin far beyond his capability, it seems, with the way he pants. But he laughs along, despite how his brow furrows with the effort. Isabel is practically falling on the floor laughing, because she knows exactly how much she's torturing him by spinning so fast in his arms.

"When we were fourteen we got kicked out for stealing food from the kitchens."

Erwin raises his brows, "That seems harsh to do. Did you have anywhere to go?"

Farlan shrugs, looking back to him, "No, but we'd been doing for two years. They found where we stored all the stuff that wouldn't rot. Right under the floorboards beneath Isabel's bed. She also had some cash there; I'd stolen some pictures of women from the chefs when they weren't looking. Naked pictures of girls. I think that's what really sent them over the edge."

Despite the gloom of the story they both share a curt laugh. Erwin rubs his lips together, "So you were on the street then? Just her and you?"

"Mm, it was a tough life," the way he says it makes it seem not so. "We spent fourteen years of having to answer to people, but finally we were free and we loved every moment of it. Right off we found a place to stay, little abandoned train car near the tracks. Every day we'd hitch a ride into the city, steal what we could. Isabel is a good pick pocket, watch out for her. I'm not  _as_   _good_ _,_  but we were good enough that people took notice. Namely Loutrel’s gang."

"And they were unhappy I take it," Erwin observes. He leans forward, putting both elbows on the table as he takes another drag from his cigarette. Farlan is nearly finished with his.

"Oh no, not unhappy. They were...impressed. They asked us to join, saying we had skills they could use and with them we could make even more money. It was good deal, but I’m sure if we would have said no it wouldn’t have ended well. He had his little gang with him, Rivaille was there. Towards the back and buried in by people. Made him look important. He was...I suppose."

Erwin can't help his enthusiasm when Rivaille is introduced. He nods, "So he was a leader then? Rivaille? And he ran with Loutrel?"

Farlan scowls a bit at that, thrown off by the ardor in Erwin's voice, "No. Not exactly. He never really said what he was. Pierre...Loutrel...they were pretty close, he'd disappear at night with him a lot. He got a cut and only leaders got a cut. But then he'd work like everyone else did. Stealing and fights and those sorts of things. He never does though. Talk about himself, I mean. He likes to observe I guess. He's always been sort of a mystery to Izzy and I."

"Why is that?" 

The younger man shrugs, scratching at his hair after he puts out his cigarette in the ashtray. "He doesn't have a surname. Says his mother didn't have one either. I'd assume that's just code for 'she was an unwed prostitute and daughter of an unwed prostitute and he was a bastard too'. His mother died when he was thirteen, he was sixteen when we met. He told us Lourtel took notice of him the way he did with us. This was all after we joined up of course. Loutrel put us up with Rivaille in this shit flat out near the train yards. It wasn't too bad. We got money and Rivaille was just as much a brother to me as Izzy was a sister.”

Farlan takes the last drag of his cigarette before squashing it into the ashtray. “Everything was nice until Isabel turned sixteen."

Erwin frowns slightly, "What happened then?"

"Loutrel tried to sell her body. Tried...succeeded," Farlan becomes immediately closed off, looking down at the lighter as he flicks it. On. Off. On. Off. "She told him no but he's a hard guy to say no to. We all learned how to fight before then. Rivaille taught us. Loutrel had taught us some things too, and you know Isabel knocked him flat on his back once." He pauses for a short laugh. "But Rivaille told us never to use what we learned on Loutrel. He told us he tried it once and he said it would just get you dead fast."

It's bleak between the two as silence descends. He reflects on the story. About what Rivaille might have meant. How he managed to survive after he'd attempted to murder Loutrel. Immediately he assumes it was murder - he can’t help but assume the most violent of all things when it came to Rivaille fighting against control.

He was a prostitute and he knew that much, but Nana had said it was for protection, not money. Erwin’s mind races towards conclusion. Where Rivaille is in bed with Loutrel and he makes reparations with his affections, his body. It’s the only thing he can see saving Rivaille from a fate like death.

And the realization makes him feel ill. It makes him dig his nails so hard into his skin it hurts. It makes him feel rage. It makes him want to put an end to Loutrel all the more.

Farlan continues without being prompted, "Rivaille bought our freedom in the end. I don't know how he did it, but he got all of us out safe. Loutrel never bothered us again; Rivaille got a job here and secured jobs for Izzy and I. And that was that. I don't want to ask how he did it. I think Izzy and I are better off not knowing. I told her he'd actually _bought_ us our freedom with the money he'd earned. Just get her to stop asking."

Erwin watches Farlan continue to play with the lighter. On. Off. On. Off. He studies how his light brown hair won't stay off his forehead and his eyes seem too big for his face. He watches him immediately turn his head when Isabel laughs from the other side of the floor. There's a small smile there, reactionary to her joy. It’s obvious that he doesn't care about what it took to get him free, he doesn't care about his freedom at all. Isabel was the important one. To both of them. She was the match in the dark.

"Is...is there anything else I ought to know about, Loutrel?" Erwin asks, delicately trying to get his attention back.

Hazel eyes meet his again, narrowed slightly in thought, "Don't under estimate how far he's willing to go. He ought to be put in an institution as far as all of us are concerned, some of the things he did are things a madman would do. He got that stupid nickname for a reason. _Le fou_."

Erwin wants desperately to go somewhere quiet, ruminate on the story. He nods in thanks. Taking another cigarette from the case in his pocket and standing to go outside for the peace he needs to think. But before he can even take a step he's intercepted by Mike, happier than normal with his hair unslicked and mouth smudged red. Erwin tries his best not to be distracted by the lipstick stained grin, the way he practically vibrates with adrenaline.

"Erwin," he says slowly. "She smells like lavender even more so when you smell her up close. I can't believe it."

"Erwin!"

Hange grabs him by the shoulders. " _Discours_! Give a speech! Go get up on stage!"

Mike joins in, chanting, "Speech! Speech! _Discours_!"

When Nana arrives, chanting along, the whole crowd has joined in over the quickly hushing music. They all call out rhythmically.  _Discours_ ,  _Discours_. Erwin has little other choice, even though he shakes his head and smiles graciously at their instigations, but to appease them.

He moves towards the stage through the crowd as they cheer him on. He hears their words and calls. The way the call him  _héros_. Hero. Savior. Genius. Commander. It makes the room feel cramped, like it’s encroaching on him, and he plants his feet on the stairs with purpose as he is pushed onto the stage by Hange. Erd and Louis depart, joining the rest of the crowd so he is left alone in front of the curtain to face them. It might have been unsettling, nerve wracking, but Erwin finds himself almost devoid of those feelings entirely. Confidence building in him at their full attention on him.

His hand goes up, looking down at them as he asks silently for their attention. His eyes catch their faces, Hange bouncing on her toes and whispering to Petra and Mike with his arm around Nana. He sees Isabel smiling as always, despite the way fate has been unkind and Farlan watching her poking at her arm with a laugh. Shadis with his broken hand and Zackly with his beard. Gunther, Erd, and Dot grinning up at him with Oluo trying to hide his smile beneath his frown. And Rivaille he sees Rivaille in the back.

That black hair is like ink in the dark of the house lights. He moves to stand on the periphery of the crowd as they settle. His eyebrows, thin and black, are raised slightly to take in the scene he finds. There is sureness in Erwin's belly as much as his nerves set a blaze, seeing Rivaille there among the rest. The smaller man cocks his head slightly, crossing his arms and looking, bored as ever, up at Erwin. Though he looks uninterested, the fact that he stays in place is proof enough that he's willing to hear what Erwin has to say. Words gather quickly like the swell of a wave.

"My friends, comrades," He begins, taking his eyes from Rivaille. He tries his damnest to make his French clear, without a single flaw for those that listen. "I have great pride in my heart, that you have found me worthy. That you see me as a leader to you all. And my pride lies most of all in you. In your strength and in your success. You have risen from the places that society has damned you to. I know this because I understand this. I can see it in your eyes that you have every reason to turn your back on this world. Yet you hope. You believe in what is right and you see something worth saving in the world that shunned you."

There's naught but a murmur among the crowd. Rivaille's face has not changed.

"But not every mission will be a success. Not every man and woman will come home unscathed or with their heart still beating. With victory comes loss, with valor comes sacrifice. To bring peace to this world we must be willing to offer ourselves to the cause. Whether it is our lives or our limbs, our peace of mind or the ones we love. That is the trial of a great man, the cost of freedom in this world. But I believe that our cause is noble and just. I am willing to do what it takes to liberate us, all of us, and allow us to live free even if it must be in death."

Erwin's hand comes over his heart, "And that is my pledge to you, to the resistance. I offer up my heart, everything I am. And in return your bravery and strength will not go unrecognized. If you are willing to continue forward we will become something for the Nazis to fear.”

Silence. Rivaille looks on, his eyes indiscernible from the distance they are from one another. Yet Erwin can feel their burn, hotter than the strength of the rest of the crowd of his comrades. He forces himself not to stare, to look away from Rivaille to the rest of the gazes that fall to him. Slowly, they begin to clap, applaud rolling over the crowd in a wave. He wonders if they’ve heard, listened to what he’s said or are simply clapping out of recklessness and rebellion.

Yet as they clap and nod, continuing their applause, he finds confidence blooming that his words reach the crowd looking on. And he realizes how meaningless it is to doubt their strength even for a moment.

Hange whistles from the back and some raise their glasses. They start to sing, without prompt, the first bars of “La Marseillaise”. As he descends the stage into their open arms, the song filling the room and their hand-shakes and claps on the back, he manages to catch Rivaille walking towards the stage door. He hates that he’s concerned about where he’s headed, for him to be so distracted by his departure when his comrades sing the way they do. He sings along, managing his way to the fringe of the crowd, where he can slip away. His curiosity gets the best of him, leading him onward to where Rivaille will go. His mind swirling with the tale Farlan spun, despite the overwhelming pride and joy he _knows_ he should be feeling.

He succeeds in making it backstage, where it's empty and neat without the flurry of a show cramming its walls with perfume and body heat. Rivaille's dressing room door is closed at the end of the hall. Erwin knocks after passing like a ghost through the deserted hall. He's granted, quietly and in English, permission to enter. Meaning that Rivaille expect him to follow and that makes his cheeks hot with a blush. 

Rivaille is leaning leisurely against the counter when Erwin opens the door. He’s positioned almost too perfectly to be natural and it makes Erwin’s suspicions to peak. His black hair is not slicked, worn wild and in long in his eyes with a neat part down the middle. The only sign of redness in his cheeks does not come from rouge, but rather the sticky heat from outside that clings to his skin indoors. Clothes again, plain apart from the almost comical cravat that's tucked into his vest and the way his sleeves precisely rolled to his elbows with even folds.

"Erwin. An inspiring speech, you gave," he says. His accent seems thicker than normal, something out of place in it. “It even moved me.”

Erwin steps inside, shutting the door behind him, the latch echoing in the hall. As he speaks he walks closer to the smaller man. Like ebb and flow, the closer he gets, the straighter Rivaille stands. He looks at him, lids low over his irises as always. Erwin tries not to stare. He tells himself not to stare.

"Thank you, Rivaille. I need to speak with you. I hope you’re not going to read too far into my concern or why I'm interested at all. But it's pointless to ask you not to do anything when you clearl-"

He's stunned into silenced when hands catch his collar and the miraculous strength tugs him forward. Rivaille has him in a solid hold and Erwin thinks off a hundred different ways to get those hands away from him. He flicks through them in his mind, calculating each option.

But Rivaille has their mouths as close as he can get without touching. Has his eyes still open and slate blue, boring into Erwin's. When their breath mingles Erwin manages to lose touch of at least ninety nine of the ways he knows he can shake free. Rivaille is waiting. For something. And it comes in the form of Erwin's hands quaking slightly before caging his waist. Small, beneath his grasp, and the warmth of his body on his skin of his palms makes him only want to pull him closer. It’s all Rivaille’s waiting for, the sign he needs before he’s hauling down Erwin against his open mouth.

It feels as if somebody has taken flame to his skin, the way it prickles all over with sweat and heat when Rivaille's lips press against his. He grunts in surprise at how soft they are, how pliant beneath his. Rivaille kisses slow and opens his mouth after the initial contact. Sliding their mouths together, he guides them to change the way his lips fit against Erwin's. It spurs the larger man on to kiss him hungry, put his hand behind his head to hold Rivaille in place. As if he was in danger of slipping away. Of running from him. 

And Rivaille sucks at his lips, letting his tongue and teeth catch the swollen, slick skin entirely on purpose. He coaxes him, gathering Erwin's gasps in his mouth. In retaliation and to take something back, Erwin steals a moan away from him when he lets his teeth press light into his bottom lip. Never before has he kissed so ferociously, held so tightly or taken so much. Their bodies are pressed so strongly together that he fears they might hurt one another to get even closer. Yet he can't manage to honestly think about anything, formulate a thought outside of Rivaille's mouth and body and hair and skin. He doesn't hesitate when he picks him up in his arms for leverage and sets him on the counter to make their height even.

Rivaille's hands travel over his skin through his shirt, up his neck and into his hair. He refuses to separate his lips from Erwin’s body in anyway. So instead he drags them down over his cheek to his jaw, to his throat. The feeling makes Erwin rut his hips against Rivaille, as he shifts on his feet to stands between his spread legs. It’s an action that makes them both moan, low and gravelly in their chests before Rivaille hooks his legs around Erwin's waist. He pulls him even closer, pressing them together hot and hard in their pants.

Reflexively, Erwin’s hands come to Rivaille’s thighs. He slides his hands over those thin, muscular legs, over his hips and up his back into his hair. Gently, he tugs at it and musses it between his fingers. All as his neck is given attention with warm open mouthed kisses and slow drags of a wet tongue. The press of his fingers into Rivaille's back makes the smaller man shiver and Erwin can feel it against his body. There is hard muscle on his back where he touches; surprising firmness under the skin of the small body he practically covers with his own.

Erwin’s eyes are pressed tightly shut and moans are quickly collecting in the back of his throat and getting louder. The way Rivaille travels upwards with his mouth to Erwin’s ear. How he breathes against it, making Erwin shake. Small hands yank his hair and drag him closer so he can suck on the lobe. Erwin’s entire body gets tense but Rivaille’s voice against his ear makes the tension subside in the press of his hips, the moan loud and filling the room. Louder than he ever has or ever thought he would.

"Erwin." Thickly accented and tone rushed like saying his name is what will ground both of them again. Then he feels teeth, biting into the delicate skin under his ear. It causes him to yelp and dig his nails hard into Rivaille's waist. His eyes open, finally catching his visage in the mirror. There, Rivaille wrapped around him, their hair tousled, and skin flushed. Erwin's own mouth hanging open and swollen and wet, as his neck is bruised with fervent kisses.

It’s when he meets his own eyes that he questions his own presence in the room, with Rivaille, in the Ailes at all. Why his hands are clutching so tightly at Rivaille's vest and why he lets his cock press against Rivaille's through the too thin fabric of their pants. Through the haze of desire, he wades, until his thoughts become clearer. Until the only thing that fills his mind is not Rivaille, but a sickening fear and disgust that makes feel ill. He finds clarity with resentment, the new feelings clouds his vision until he’s lightheaded. He claws inside himself for control, regaining his foothold in his own mind and forcing himself to a halt.

It's not his intention to push Rivaille away so hard that he sends him into the mirror. He falls and hits the glass with a curse, glaring at Erwin.

They stare at each other for a moment, panting and spent and too much of too many things to allow themselves to show how they truly feel. At the absence of one another. Their mouths and hands. Erwin has his jaw flexed so tight that his teeth protest with a dull sting. His fists are balled so tight that his nails bite at his skin, but he’s breathing evenly all too soon. The foothold perfectly regained. Where was the applause now?

"Erwin?" Is all Rivaille has time to say before Erwin is out the door, down the street. Walking from Montemarte as if the devil himself was set to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Héros means hero  
> -During late April 1942 Paris saw a massive heat wave  
> -Pierre Loutrel "Le Fou" was indeed the leader of a gang before he was recruited to the Carlingue and was the leader of a prostitution ring


	7. Le Sang et les Os

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You must be willing to give up everything to gain everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well Sang literally means blood so fair warning: things are about to get...less..happy...
> 
> Sorry!
> 
> And always thank you for reading! I'm absolutely floored by all the positive responses I've received!
> 
> ***warnings for violence, violent language, blood, and gore***

- **May 1942** -

The world in Erwin’s eyes seems to turn with immense and frightening beauty at the knowledge of how Rivaille’s mouth tastes. The hair on the back of his neck hasn't settled back down after that night and everything feels almost too intense, too startling. The slightest breeze on his skin now would send a wicked chill through his body, even if it was the hot, heavy air of summer ascending. There was no peace.

When he would turn a corner he would fear to see him standing there. Then feel sadness that he was nowhere to be found.

And even now in the countryside miles away from Paris’ suffocation he feels his presence. In the grey clouds cutting through the open and bright blue sky just before dusk, he thinks of his eyes. He sees their shade in the murky Seine, in the teal opal rings on Nana’s fingers, in the dull blue of dawn in the hazy city. It was being haunted by somebody still alive. Whether that made it better or worse was not something Erwin could provide any speculation on.

Hange calls his name three times before getting his attention. On the third there's this motherly sort of worried annoyance in her voice. Naturally asks him what it is he’s thinking about so hard that he thinks it's okay to ignore her completely. She's laughing at him, her own question, and the way he looks away like a child embarrassed for being caught doing something wrong.

"Nothing," Erwin says, maintaining his calm. But Rivaille is not nothing to him. He’s the only goddamned thing he can think about. There's so much shame in it that he can hardly stand it.

"I was saying that we should ride, soon," she says with a yawn. Her eyes behind her spectacles are twinkling in the bright sunlight of sunset fast approaching. She looks at him and there is skepticism in them. Fortunately, though, in their time as friends she has learned not to press him for information in his reticence.

Instead she fills the silence with happy discussion of Petra Ral's red hair and it's habit of being everywhere in her modest flat no matter how many times she cleans up after her leaving. How glad she is to have found such a girl and even after a month how happy they are, even if they can't hold hands in public. She grins around rapid, accented English and the slow way she says Petra in a way that sounds more French than anything else.

"It's sometimes very sad that she still won't let me hold her hand in public because she's afraid somebody she knows will see. She's still got her father around you know, he's widowed so Petra still lies with him but he's very nice. He doesn't know of course. About anything she does actually. He thinks she works in a tavern as a waitress and that's why stays out so late. And he doesn't know anything about her knowing how to use a gun. She says Rivaille teaching her how to shoot a pistol years back is probably what makes her such a sharp shooter now. She's got impressive aim. Have you seen her practicing?"

He has. The girl in her flowing summer skirts, standing perpendicular to the targets they'd assembled out near the stables. She always used her left arm, holding the gun in one hand, shooting it with out flinching. When she'd walk and shoot, she'd step gracefully, like a ballerina moving across the stage, and keep the pistol level as she hit within the target with every expended bullet. "I had no idea Rivaille had taught her that. What exactly is Petra to him anyway?" 

Hange lets her horse graze on the sweet grass, the tawny mare she'd been riding since the operations had started last month. The horses had become integral to their work and with the help of Monsieur Ness they were able to care for them and use them at will. Erwin's horse, the proud stallion he'd come to affectionately call Brother, had become nearly a companion in their time together. In private he'd call him  _Bruder_ and the stallion would answer all the same.

The woman shrugs, dusting off her linen pants and readjusting the pistol holster on her belt when she stands up, "Petra says she owes everything to him. She respects him immensely."

Erwin can't seem to grasp the concept of Petra owing anything to anyone. She was was young, yet she maintained a sense of womanly independence that was uncharacteristic for a pretty girl that age. Like the bustling journalists or smart mouthed heroines of American films. Passingly he imagines what it would be like to be married to her, with her bright smile and clear eyes welcoming him home at the end of the long day. Even for a fantasy it seems too hollow and silly to actually imagine. He's seen enough of her lipstick on Hange's collar to know that she wasn't the least bit interested in warming his bed.

"People always seem to owe Rivaille quite a bit. But that doesn't answer my question, Hange. What is  _she_ to  _him_?" Erwin presses.  _Bruder_ has his head resting on Erwin's shoulder, sniffing at his cheek. 

Hange shakes her head, "You'd have to ask, Rivaille. As much as I try to question him about it, he won't tell me anything about himself or his past." She pauses, looking at Erwin for a moment. "You know, Erwin, if you're trying to be subtle about your interest in him you might think to not bring him up in conversation every chance you get."

He freezes in the middle of getting on to Brother, staring back at Hange. Fear and embarrassment lance through him like the shame after a hard slap to the face. With a slow flex of his jaw he settles on his horse, looking at her plain faced and placid in demeanor.  _He means nothing._

"I don't care about Rivaille in that way. I'm not a...pansy or fem or whatever it is the French call men with those sorts of inclinations," he glances out towards the south. They ought to get moving again, towards where they've agreed to meet Nana and Mike because it's impossible for them to take control of the horses left over from the families.

Without looking at her he commands her to get on her horse, just by sitting still with his feet resting in the stirrups of his own saddle. She obliges, but giggles as she climbs to sit n her saddle, rubbing at the leather absently for a moment. With a click of her tongue she positions herself beside Erwin as they ride on towards the south.

"If anyone is to understand your feelings to your own sex, Erwin, it would be me," she grins, elbowing him and then adjusting her glasses. Apparently he had too much faith in her knowledge not to press him for more information than he was willing to give. "Petra was scared to you know. I told her that she didn't have to be. Not around her comrades, her friends. We're all just as strange, not quite made for the rest of this silly world. But I suppose it makes us family in a way. We love each other enough not to care about our peculiarities."

Her eyes had always been too wide, to uncomfortable when they were dead set on keeping you in their gaze. Erwin shifts on Brother's back, grabbing the saddle horn with a gloved hand - a particular fashion choice he'd decided on to prevent more callouses from erupting on his palms. There's already sweat on his brow but he feels warmer now and blames it on the hot setting sun.

"I'm not interested in him sexually or otherwise, Hange," he says determinedly. "I'm curious about him because nobody else seems to be. I can't help but be suspicious of a man I know nothing about."

"Oh come now, there's nothing to be suspicious about. He's been my friend for a over a year, Nana's for longer. Everyone I know would trust him with their life," she says and it's a clear exaggeration even she is hesitant about saying. "He inspires that _sort of thing_ in people. It might be hard for you to believe considering he is so gloomy all the time - it's so different from how he is on the stage no? - but he's done so much for so many. He's noblehearted even if he won't choose our cause."

He thinks of Farlan's story. Rivaille has set them free but the means with which he secured their freedom were still entirely uncertain. He hadn't asked Isabel about the story yet, with great determination on his own part to stay off the subject of Rivaille until it felt safe enough to venture into the territory again. Even now, it feels treacherous to speak his mind, as if their transgressions will appear plain of his face.

"I hear of the good he's done but never quite how he managed to do it," Erwin explains. "That's what I'm suspicious of, Hange."

She's quiet for a long time as she considers this. When she speaks her voice takes on a different quality, something more serious, "You know that sort of conversation is strange, Erwin. I've been considering it for a while, before thinking of it in the terms of Rivaille's actions. I've been thinking about us, the resistance and what we do. Did you know how unpopular we are?" He nods slowly and she nods back. "Yes I figured you had heard."

Another small silence in which Erwin stays quiet so that she can collect her thoughts.

"Erwin we do a lot of good along with a lot of bad, but all the bad is for that good. Wasn't it you who said it? 'You must be willing to give up everything to gain everything'. I've come to terms that I'll never go back to chemistry in my lab ever again. I'm certain that I wouldn't be allowed in again because I am a woman; not with the Nazis around at least. I wouldn't be able to go back though, for many other reasons. I suppose all these thoughts are coming out very strange so allow me to try and be clear.

"I'm willing to sacrifice what I have to in order to gain our freedom back, even if those things are wicked things. Because they serve the good. Do you understand that, Erwin?"

He smiles, close lipped but understanding.

"Yes, Hange, I understand." 

They reach Nana and Mike in a clearing. The other horses are grazing - there's five there along with the two they've ridden in on - and the only sound to be heard is the wind in the trees and the chirping of the birds in them. Erwin finds the two of them nestled beneath a tree in the most compromising of ways. Mike sitting with his back against with Nanaba in his lap, her blouse unbuttoned and shrugged off one shoulder as she grinds against him in a slow rhythm. They're kissing deeply with hands traveling and squeezing and touching all over and between and in places where Erwin can't see.

He clears his throat, but not before Hange can appear at his side, laughing gleefully at the scene she's entered into.

"Oh dear perhaps we should have called," she jokes, slipping seamlessly into French again.

The couple scramble to their feet, buttoning buttons and covering skin where skin should not be exposed. Mike is stammering out an excuse and Nana appears cool, but clearly embarrassed by being caught doing what they had been so profoundly engaged in. Erwin catches the spots on her neck where Mike's beard has scratched her red; matching the hue in her cheeks and the rawness in her lips.

"We need to get back to the city," Erwin says around a sly grin. "Let's tie the horses, Mike."

He nods and gets to work as Hange and Erwin share in the hysterics.

"I can't believe this," Mike laments.

Hange laughs but then suddenly looks worried, clearly joking by the way she speaks. "Do you smell that Erwin?"

Erwin follows her act. "No Hange. But I'm sure Mike can."

She shakes her head, "Oh no he probably can't. It always seems like you can't smell yourself hm. But maybe..." She looks to Mike. "I was just thinking how much it smelt like horses and sex out here."

Laughter erupts again, not shared by Mike or Nana in the slightest. It feels light, good, nice, for Erwin to laugh like that. 

It takes all but a half an hour to make it within the sights of the Parisian outskirts. The extra horses slow them down slightly and Brother doesn't care much for being tied to a another, indignant as he is. They aren't far from the stables when things start to go wrong and of course it's the last stretch before success that spells disaster every time. When they're careless and proud.

"PETRA!" is the blood curdling overture to the grand first act of bullets soaring past Erwin's ears. He turns around in a swift motion, letting the other horse free form Brother and pulling his pistol out from it's holster. There are three men following Petra and Isabel, who run on foot with dirt stained pants and wild hair. Three German soldiers all twice times their size with three large rifles they shoot over and over and over. The timespan of a heartbeat, that's how long it takes for Erwin to start firing back. He shouts a command to the others, to cut the horses free and give one to Isabel. The others have the guns free, too, in defense.

"Petra!" he shouts to her. "Get on this horse here."

Brother shifts between his legs with unease at the feeling of bullets narrowly missing them. But Erwin's hands are steady as he reloads his pistol. Six shots, bullet each, close chamber, shoot. Petra looks terrified, her eyes are wide and shifting between Erwin and Isabel beside her. The younger girl is shot, bleeding from under her pink blouse and holding her arm as it hangs limp while she runs. It's throwing off her balance and Erwin can feel the determination in her to keep running like the electricity in a summer storm.

The Germans shout after them and Erwin is the only one who can  understand the threats they make. Threats to murder and rape them. Calling them bitches and Jew loving whores.

_"Ihr Huren! Glaubt ihr, die können euch retten?! Wir wissen wie ihr ausseht! Ihr werdet nie wieder sicher sein! Wir finden euch in euren schönen, sicheren Betten und werden euch ausweiden wie Tiere, judenliebende Tiere! Vorher werden wir euch ficken, eh Gregor? Erteil diesen Schlampen eine Lehre darüber, was passiert, wenn ihr euch mit den Jungs anlegt!"_

Petra gets on her horse and, with Nana pulling her up along with Mike's assistance, Isabel manages to get onto hers. Hange is shooting back in rapid succession, Erwin too. But where Hange's shots whizz past the soldiers as they make their advance, Erwin lands a bullet square between one of the soldier's eyes. He falls and his comrades look shocked by the accuracy of the shot coming from a man presumably untrained. Erwin's lip curls, chin lowering to make his eyes level with the top of his pistol.

"Nana! Petra! Mike! You will stay and fight. Hange take Isabel back to dr-"

He sees darkness when he hits the ground. Brother is rearing above him, startled and whinnying in fear as shots appear from behind. Erwin scrambles to his feet, turning back to see two more soldiers coming from the north, from the city. They must have heard the shooting.  And now they're surrounded by four, running at them with rifles rattling of rounds into the trees, the supply bags, the horses. Brother falls from his hind legs with the bullets passing through his massive belly and he can hear Petra shout from behind. And it's chaos and smoke and dust upheaved from the ground below.

He watches Nana run - her horse grounded as well - attacking a soldier who is in the middle of reloading his rifle. And Mike moves as her fulcrum, staying close and landing a punch to the jaw on the other soldier so he doesn't have time to shoot her before she makes it to her target. Hange is wailing like a war cry as she pulls a rifle free to throw to Petra. Isabel has pistol of her own and the three of them go for the other two, dodging, just barely, the shots fired at them.

And Erwin goes for the soldier who lands two good punches to Mikes jaw. Isabel appears by his side and he's unsure how she's managed it but, while her arm still bleeds she pulls a knife from her boot. She attacks alongside Nana, Erwin can see the two of them fighting from his periphery as he runs. He tackles the soldier that tries to pulls a knife on Mike, knocking his legs out from under him by putting all his weight into his force. They scramble on the ground, the knife just narrowly avoiding the helplessly exposed flesh chest and stomach that isn't defended by heavy wool uniforms like the soldier's is. 

Erwin fights him off by going for his wrist, grabbing it and wretching the knife free from his hand. All the while the German spits and cusses at him, struggling beneath his weight. He could have planted the knife into his chest, his stomach, but with all that wool, the chance of the wound not being fatal. It might have taken to long for him to die before Erwin could go to assist the others.

So he sheathes it under his adam's apple; baring his teeth and wincing away as blood splatters across his face and chest. The German chokes, eyes going wide - a pretty blue grey to compliment his blonde hair - looking up at Erwin in fear as he's drowning in his own blood from the inside out. There is a great and terrible intimacy in watching the light fade from a man's eyes and Erwin feels as though he's obligated to see it through before he stands. 

Hange shouts to him and his eyes shift almost too focused to where the woman fights off two men on her own. She screams wildly and thrashes in the hold of one while the other comes near. Her foot connects with his jaw before he has time to draw his pistol again. The second time he tries to draw it, it's Erwin who stops him. He lands a bullet right into his skull and has him dropping to the ground at Hange's feet.

The woman then uses her weight to send the soldier behind her onto his back with her on top. With a hard crack the back of her head connect with his face. In the moment of disorientation she rises to her feet, snatching his pistol away and sending rounds into his face and chest with alarming and sudden accuracy.

The silence that follows is so unnerving it makes Erwin feel like he might vomit. It makes him dizzy and unsettled in himself like he's not connected to the ground at his feet. But there must be sound from the way Isabel's mouth is open in a silent wail and Nana shouts to Mike as he rips his shirt. Isabel's leg is mangled, cut into ribbons at the thigh. It's the sight of all that blood that brings him back, presumably. Hurdling back to himself where he's calm and straight-spined and level-headed.

"We need to get out of here. Right now," he commands to mostly deaf ears. Nana, Mike, and Isabel are accounted for, he thinks, but Hange who stood beside him only a moment before manages to have disappeared. He surveys the field, looking around for the sight of her. She's there, standing near a tree a few feet away like she's drawn to it without a word. 

And he finds Petra, lying at her feet.

She's limp, back bent and twisted in a way too impossible for her to have survived. Erwin slowly wipes the sweat from his brow, smearing blood on his skin more than he is wiping it clean and breathing in the smell of it like metal. There's sourness in the air, mingling like a chemical cloud with the sound of Isabel's sobs.

"Hange!"

Mike has Isabel's leg wrapped up tightly now, but blood pools through the cloth at an alarming rate. Her little mouth, usually so plush and rose colored with happiness, is a pale purple red. He picks her up, Mike, with the help of Nana, and settles her on the horse that's managed to return to them. There are only three now, of the seven. Brother's corpse has already managed to attract flies.

"Hange we have to go! She's loosing to much blood!" Mike shouts. His French is so rapid but Erwin follows the pace with sharpened, frightening clarity of mind. There's total silence as Isabel shakes with a truly silent cry this time. She begs hoarsely in French, sobbing, praying to a God that Erwin didn't know she even believed in.

He turns to look at Hange again, finding her shape now over the motionless heap that is Petra's body. She studies her as if she's confused, as if she were a benevolent being unaccustomed to the notion of death. So strange to see for a woman who put cyanide into pills to assist them on to the other side. Some of her work lies dormant under the great weight of Brother's body, leaving Erwin without the option. He doesn't feel any hesitation before he moves towards her; knowing for certain that she won't have the strength to stand and walk away on her own. Gently, he puts his hand on her shoulder.

"Zoe," he says, using her true name for the first time in years.

"Petra," she whispers, voice cracked and empty. He can't see her face but he can see the emotion in the way her hands quake, her fingers seem stiff like talons as they come to grasp Petra's pretty lace collar. When Hange lifts her body slightly off the ground the girl's head lolls back, unsupported by the connection of the bones in her neck. Her horse lies dead beside her, shot to hell with bullets just the same as Brother was. She must have been tossed, must have landed on her head or hit the tree hard enough that her neck snapped. There's not a way of knowing what actually killed her, he supposes.

"If we don't go now, Hange, Isabel will die," Erwin says. Part of him knows the other girl is as good as dead herself, part of him is hopeful that Hange will be able to mend the ripped skin. He doesn't know the severity of the wound on her thigh, but the way color is seemingly being sucked from her body it doesn't leave him with any confidence in her survival. Yet, still. There's that spark of hope.

"I can't leave her here," she says, cradling Petra up to her chest, not looking away from her face. He can see her profile now. He can see the way she cries openly, face distorted and pained. She leans down, kissing her lips in a desperate sort of way. "I'm not leaving her to die out here alone."

The choice of words might have broken his heart, if he allowed it to shatter. He wants to remind her that she's dead in the past tense, but he doesn't feel it right to correct her now. If it's even a mistake at all or some delusion...he stops the thoughts there.

"Can you carry her?" he asks, glancing back at Mike, Isabel, and Nana with their tattered blood-stained clothes.

Hange nods, slow and shaking with a sob in her throat. She breathes unevenly as she lifts Petra like a child in her arms, carrying her heavy and unsupported body with a slight struggle. One that Erwin allows her the privilege to have. With his help they get on to one of the only horses that remains. The largest is left for he and Mike to share, and they do so with silence. Nana rides fastest, leading the group as they make they're way back to Ness' house. He decides not to glance back at Hange and Petra as she ride with her slumped forward in front of her. They need a moment alone.

They enter the stables like thunder, hooves clattering on the cobblestone to announce their arrival. Ness comes out and Hange orders him immediately to clear off his table inside. Mike and Nana haul Isabel in, who is slipping quickly into unconsciousness as she's carried. Her head rolls with the movement, body twitching with pain at being jostled about. Hange turns to Erwin when he descends his horse, finally looking at her and Petra, and she doesn't need to say the words before Erwin knows to take Petra from her arms.

There's something different in Hange's eyes, behind the spectacles on her face. She pushes them up on her nose, the blood dried on her hand.

"Put her somewhere that I can get to her later. Treat her gently," she says once Erwin takes the girl in his arms. Hange settles her feet on the ground. Her lips roll back and forth on themselves, and then she goes inside without looking back at Petra again.

He carries her like a bride to an open stall, used mostly for the storage of hay. He sets her body on one the bails, making sure to take special care of her head when he lays her down. Gently, pushes the hair from her face, not at all startled by the coldness of her skin. It's an extra measure, to move her hands so they're crossed on her stomach but he feels it's necessary to take the extra step to do it. He moves calculatedly, thoughts abundantly transparent and coherent even when he knows he should be panicking to touch a dead girl's hands. As he is with everything, he is calm.

By the time he's back inside Hange is pulling unsuccessful stitches from Isabel's leg. She's looking frustrated and exhausted in a way that only shows the danger Isabel is in. Isabel, who is writing wildly and shifting out of Mike's hands. He looks almost too frightened to hold her down. Hange curses at him and it's only then that he starts to grip her hard enough that she can't shift around. Ness comes back in with the fireplace stoker from the other room and Isabel struggles.

"What is that?" she shouts. "What's that for?!"

Hange fashions a tourniquet quickly, her hands moving with rapid speed, "Keep calm. I'm not here to torture you."

Each crank of the tourniquet tightens around his neck as much as it does around Isabel's leg; choking him out with the blood and screams that don’t even feel like hers anymore. Now they belong to him, like parasites traveling from host to host. Finding home deep in his chest, in his heart, in a place where they’ll hide - without doubt - until they’re least expected to return. Behind the the darkness of his eyelids, in the sanctuary of sleep, in the moments when he thinks perhaps he’s come to terms with a girl slowly dying on the table where a man takes his morning coffee each day, with Petra's body still mangled and resting outside in the stables alone.

Death he could handle, seeing wounds an bodies torn apart. He could handle this, he thinks. But only just barely.

"Hold her still, dammit!" Hange shouts. There’s blood splatter on her shirt, each pulse paints it more red. The artery. The artery must be severed meaning that something had gone wrong. "Where’s that bourbon, Nana? Get it to me. Now!"

Her shouts are wrecked; half wails between the sobs and pleads for Hange not to touch the slice that exposes the bone. In a surprising wave of darkness, Erwin wants to smother her. He wants to shake her and tell her to be strong in the face of all this. But there’s no use in that. Even the strongest feel fear. In this moment, he certainly does. This girl is dying, even if the wound is closed, the chances...

"Where’s Petra?! Where’s she gone?!"

Erwin searches for words, but they do not come. He remains stoned face, cold eyes peering down at the injured girl like a gargoyle. She’s shaking, looking up at him as she squirms on the dining table. There’s lacquer under her fingernails, along with the dirt.

He looks to Mike, “We need to get Rivaille and Farlan here.”

Nana brings the bourbon, lifting Isabel's head gently so that she can drink. Her eyes are downcast on Isabel's face, watching her like a nurturing mother as she suckles hungrily from the bottle. There's remarkable softness in her voice, "I think that's a good idea. For Isabel's sake."

It goes unsaid, but the room can agree on why the two men need to be present.

She ought to be able to say goodbye to the people she cares about. If she doesn't die first.

It's Erwin who elects to go, knowing full well that he's not integral to the surgery now that they've all taken on their roles. Ness offers his car, which Erwin takes gratefully, and speeds out into the night towards the Ailes. 

The club is as open for business as it ever was, Nana and Petra's absences from the line up seeming to be a minor obstacle and nothing more. It brings a morose sort of quality to the phrase "the show must go on". If any of the cast knew, any of the employees or Zackly, but they don't. Erwin arrives at their door like a soldier carrying a letter of regret to the hopeful family on the other side.

There are so many people inside he can hardly breathe; with the smoke and the heat filling his lungs at the door. Farlan isn't at the front taking hats and coats like he normally is. Instead he's replaced by younger boy who Erwin observes but doesn't have enough time to properly study, or listen to his objections when he brushes by with coat and hat still on, cover charge unpaid. Past the main foyer is a sea of people, drinking and celebrating after another mission, but this time with entertainment on stage. Which is apparently interacting by the way they all answer.

" _Oui_ _!"_

He's thankful for his height, which grants him the ability to see up to the stage around the people who remain standing near the entrance. It's clear that whatever has them in such an uproar is only made worse through alcohol, which Erwin can smell coming off their bodies. He nudges his way through, muttering apologies until he can get to standing in the front of the crowd.

Of course it's Rivaille up on stage causing the ruckus around in the club. Tonight he's dressed as Violette again, with her hair curled long and pulled to one side. But instead of his usual choice of showy lingerie, he has on his street clothes. That outrageous cravat is not to be found around his neck, mostly, he assumes, so he can have his shirt open the way he does. It's enough to expose the bright red bra underneath, that is auspiciously the perfect shade to match his lipstick. 

Farlan is there too, surprisingly, and dressed as he normally is. He wipes at his eyes, cheerily,  from whatever Rivaille had said before. He leans on the side of the grand piano that Rivaille sits at; arms crossed and hair tousled as always. Rivaille plays the opening bars of his song and sings in French.

_When people look at me and say_  
 _Why does that fellow act that way?  
Is his influence prenatal?_

Farlan laughs which is enough of an interruption to stop the music. He looks over his shoulder at Rivaille asking in French, "Prenatal?"

Rivaille scowls, confirming. "Yes, prenatal." He starts again.

_That slowly grew in fatal  
My father hoped I'd be a boy..._

Farlan laughs again and Rivaille stop his song yet again for him. He looks back, "What a disappointment." The audience descends into hysterics at Rivaille's knitted brows. He huffs and curses at Farlan, point a finger at him and threatening some kind of physical violence before settling back into song. His voice is soft and pretty, kissing at Erwin's ears as it always did. It's strange to find himself so soothed by the sound of it and he thinks if he were a weaker man he'd take solace here, listening to Rivaille sing.

But that's not his intentions and so he goes about catching Rivaille's eye. It doesn't take long, him being so tall, and waving his hand to get Rivaille's attention seems rather foolish once their gazes meet. Either it's that Rivaille isn't surprised by him being there at all or he noticed him right when arrived. Erwin suspects the latter of the two.

Rivaille remains focused on him as he sings, losing the playful quality of his performance for the sake of the normal low lidded, unimpressed stare he gives when he's not in the middle of an act. He raises his eyebrows at Erwin, asking silently what the hell he thinks he's doing. Erwin doesn't think mouthing at him will do any good, nor will talking out loud and trying to shout over the people and the song Rivaille is sing. He makes a motion across his throat, instead.  _Cut the act_. Rivaille scowls back and shakes his head, still keeping up every note of the song, pressing every key perfectly.

Erwin starts to move closer to the stage and perhaps it's the look in his eyes that convinces Rivaille to stop playing, but he's thankful that he does. The crowd starts to boo, sounds of confusion and shouts of protest start to fill the room. Rivaille ignores them, eerily calm as he moves towards the edge of the stage to see what Erwin is so dead set on telling him. Farlan follows behind, scowling.

"What is it, Erwin?"

The way he speaks is so painfully amicable that Erwin is startled by it. He expects more frustration in him interrupting, anger, or worry that an interruption might mean something dire had happened. Rivaille stares at him, grey eyed and observant.

 _Petra's dead_. _Isabel is on her way_.  


He expects a reaction to that, despite it remaining unsaid. He's frightened by what the reaction might be. It's harder than he expects to be the one to say them aloud for the first time.

 But that terror is so deep down that nobody, not even Rivaille with the way he looks at him like he can see every part and ticking cog, can manage to find it.

"Rivaille, Farlan," he starts. His eyes are settled on Rivaille's, shifting only for a moment to Farlan's gaze to ensure that he has his attention. But, as selfish and self-indulgent as it is, it's Rivaille he's worried about. It's his reaction that he's desperate to see. So he can help? He's not sure. He's never been particularly good at comforting people. Perhaps it's the way he's terrible at showing the emotion he feels or how cold he always seems to be. He's never had a chance to comfort somebody grieving outside his father. And then there wasn't much to be done but obey his authority and try his all his effort to make him proud.

He's even more the fool for thinking that Rivaille and him share enough of a connection that he would be able to help, to comfort. As if Rivaille would want his help. Even then what exactly would be his intentions? Surely he doesn't think of Rivaille as a friend or a comrade. 

"There's been a terrible accident. I'm very sorry but it's important that you come with me. Now."

Rivaille's face does not change, but there's a flash of some kind of recognition in his eyes. Petra, Isabel, and Nana all mysteriously absent after a mission. Not even so much as a call to the club to let them know they wouldn't be arriving in time to perform. He must be weaving the information together behind his eyes, it all snapping into place the moment Erwin apologizes. Gives his condolences.

It's Farlan who speaks. Panic in his face. A different sort of recognition altogether.

"Commander, what is it? Who is it?" 

"Petra has been...regretfully killed on our mission. And Isabel is gravely injured," he answers. It's pulling a splinter out from his skin but the resolution not to show the strain on his face when he does.

A soft flex of his jaw, a gentle purse of his lipstick covered lips as he does. But nothing more than that. Erwin stares at him for a moment, trying to understand Rivaille. Unmaking him and making him up in his head a million different ways like he'd been doing for the past weeks, days, hours. The scenarios he's imagined, the stories he's concocted to explain Rivaille's past. But it's this that makes Erwin feel like he's finally made a breakthrough. Rivaille takes in pain and loss with understanding and expectation. He takes them in like facts rather than fears. Like a wound he can breathe through until the pain is no longer there, all expelled in a slow and even breath while he mends the cut closed. Erwin can see this because he understands this. He looks back at Rivaille like he's looking back at a mirror. 

"Please," Farlan says, tears brimming in his eyes and interrupting the silence. His voice is strangled and quiet, unashamed to be falling apart on a stage in front of a crowd looking on. All this for Isabel, he thinks. He wonders if he loves anyone enough to react in such a way.

"Please take me to her, Commander. She needs me there."

Erwin agrees and they drive in silence.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Bruder literally means "brother" in German.  
> -le sang et les osmeans blood and bone  
> -the Germans say (*warning for some pretty heavy language*) You whores! You think they can save you! We know what you look like! You'll never be safe again! Find you in your nice safe beds and gut you like animals, Jew loving animals! Fuck you first, eh Gregor? Teach these bitches a lesson about what happened when you play with the boys.  
> -The song Rivaille sings is actually Gene Malin's 1932 song "That's What's The Matter With Me"  
> -At the beginning of the chapter, when Hange is talking about how unpopular the resistance is, this is actually a tie in of historical attitudes towards the resistance. Propaganda mixed with violence on the part of certain resistance groups caused public opinion to drop down towards the negative. Most people viewed them as a nuisance or out of their minds, similar to the way many people view the Survey Corps in the actual canon.


	8. Tenir ta Main

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t want to look over his shoulder, for fear what he might find there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter took so long! So much has happened since the last update and now, it got hard to find the time and inspiration to write. Hopefully now I'll be back on my weekly schedule!

Isabel is unconscious by the time they arrive. The four that remained behind all perch themselves in the room like figurines in a doll house, rigid and steadfast in their positioning and unwilling to be the first to move. Nana is sitting in the chair next to Isabel, holding a wet cloth on her forehead, Mike leans near the door across from her, Ness rests his hips against the counter top, and Hange cleans her glasses, repetitive motions of circles on the lenses that don't appear to be getting any cleaner from her dirty blouse. It is total silence until Farlan arrives and begins to talk Isabel awake again.

Rivaille stands back, settling beside Erwin and watching, observing, as if Isabel was a girl he’d never met. Erwin glances down at him, taking in the way he stares. Unflinching with eyes dark and barely visible from the veil of his eyelashes – painted, black, and curled. He breathes evenly, determinedly so, and keeps his hands placed at his sides.

“Izzy,” Farlan chokes out in French, holding himself over Isabel in her motionless state. Every gasp of air she takes comes with effort; her mouth is parted with a split lip that Erwin hadn’t noticed before. When she cracks her eyes open slightly, she smiles.

“Hello, Farlan,” she exhales. The color of her irises are clouded and she’s too pale to appear drunk in anything but her demeanor. She is drunk, of course; the bottle that Hange had demanded sits half empty on the counter behind Nanaba. Erwin supposes it was for the pain. He can see that she's still bleeding through the wrapping on her leg.

“Isabel.” Farlan sighs out with relief and pushes the cloth that Nana holds aside. Carefully, he leans into her and kisses her forehead. “I thought I told you not to get hurt.”

She giggles, half-heartedly and strained, but in a way that satisfies everyone in the room. There’s noticeable and slight relaxation in the way Mike stands. Nana picks up the discarded cloth and moves to bring it to the sink. She uses the opportunity to get closer to Mike, it appears, by way of them sharing a glance and a small, weak smile with one another. It seems to say at least they will have this.

“I know, brother,” Isabel says slowly. She takes a heaving breath, turns her head more toward him. They speak French to one another, in low voices, and Erwin feels like he's intruding just by listening. “But they hurt Petra first. I wasn’t going to let them do that to her, those bastards.” Her lips part sleepily around a grin, but her brows are furrowed. “I got a few good punches in after they got me off my horse.”

Erwin and Hange meet eyes before looking away. Shame starts to pour in, white hot and liquefying what guts remain after the fight has taken most of them. Petra’s death was not his fault; he didn’t snap her neck with his own hands or chase her through the woods to make her too exhausted to fight. Even though he knows these things, he still welcomes the blame, because he believes it just as much as he believes he wasn't the one to kill her. He believes that he deserves it. Blame was how he had expected grief to manifest in his comrades. In Hange. In Farlan.

He glances down at Rivaille. The smaller man remains with his back straight, taking in Isabel with something in his eyes akin to guilt, which Erwin can immediately identify out of familiarity. It's hidden under his cold stare, but it presses against the surface of his gaze, pushing outward to his flat-lined lips and tensing shoulders. He looks uncomfortable, like a person at a funeral who doesn’t know the deceased well enough to grieve.

Erwin wants to keep staring for his own assurances, or perhaps encourage him to speak to Isabel. But instead he holds back, and turns to Hange again. He steps towards her, right into the empty space beside her so he can speak to her without the others hearing their conversation. Without being prompted she gives him the status.

“She is still losing too much blood,” she says, speaking English to him. “She’ll be dead by midnight.”

Her voice is soft enough that only he hears her words as the others carry on without noticing the exchange. But he can’t help immediately look to Rivaille, who does not acknowledge the stare except for the slow blink of an eye. He’s close enough to have heard, if he were really listening. Erwin doubts, very much, that he wouldn’t be.

“Has she said anything about what happened?” he asks, deciding that he doesn't want to disturb the girl and her precious hours left with these sorts of affairs.

Hange is quiet for a moment, staring down at her cracked fingernails that are sealed with dried blood and dirt too permanent now to ever scrub clean.

“She said the soldiers must have known where they were. They found- ,” she pauses and then swallows thick. “They found Petra first she says. But they were both too far out to meet anyone on a patrol. Meaning that they must have known where to look for Petra. Or at the very least it was pure misfortune that they found her and were just simply following the path they know we would be taking.”

He doesn’t realize how silent it had gotten in the room as Hange speaks, he’s too focused on the calculated way she maneuvers her words into place around the ghost that stares her in the face.  All, including Isabel and Farlan, are looking to them and he catches each pair of eyes before settling on Isabel’s.

"Isabel," Erwin starts, sighing deeply. It's no as if he wants to do this now. With her so very likely to die soon and with Petra already dead. Knowing this information could save lives.

She’s breathing more labored now, looking at him with a more innocent gaze than he expects to see. Very slowly she opens and closes her mouth and looks to Farlan for prompting. An action that seems to retreat to some childlike dependency that, by appearances, Farlan doesn’t expect to resurface either.

He pets her hair slowly, and nods. “You want to tell me what happened, Izzy? I'm sure the commander wants to know.”

“I…” she starts. “Petra and I were being followed. Petra said she’d felt like it after she left the town she was in and I should have trusted my instincts. We didn’t talk about the plan or who we were. I purposely made sure to avoid talking about anything like that so in case we _were_ being followed…”

Erwin nods, giving approval of her clever caution. She nods back, taking his support and moving forward with it.

“But they knew who we were. I could understand when they said the word ‘jew’. That’s when we fought them and we thought we’d gotten away but they shot our horses out from under us. So we started to run. It felt like hours had gone by when we reached you, commander.”

Erwin doesn’t expect to hear Rivaille say anything, let alone show the pride he does.

"I'm proud of you, Izzy. You out ran them for so long."

Erwin turns to Rivaille, surprised, and sees him move towards Isabel. He takes up to the place on the other side of her body from Farlan. As he comes up beside her, he doesn't take his hands from his sides or reach out to give her comfort of any sort, but it seems that his presence near her alone makes her breathing ease slightly.

She bites her lip as it quivers slightly, “Thank you, brother.”

He rolls his lips together and reaches out. Farlan moves his hand away from her hair so Rivaille can replace it with his own. Slowly he leans down and kisses her forehead, his eyes drifting closed and lips resting against her skin for several moments. Then he pulls away with a soft sigh. 

The way she bites down on her lip doesn’t successfully hide the way it contorts with the first signs of tears. Rivaille simply pets her hair, barely whispering as he hushes her. But those grey eyes are unwavering, even when Erwin catches them as they look away from the girl. Rivaille passes his gaze through him as if he weren’t there and he disappears from the room easily - nobody watches him go except for Erwim.

Instead they go back to tending to Isabel, Nana bringing her water and Mike cleaning the instruments Hange used. Every time Nana comes by to refill the glass, Mike stands behind her so he can bury his nose into her hair and kiss the top of her head. Erwin watches, admiring the way they interact.

Eventually, the gnawing absence of Rivaille forces him to go search for his whereabouts. Politely, he excuses himself and slips outside. As soon as he does, he takes a moment, observing their surroundings. There's a daunting feeling residing in him. Certainly there are still people looking for the ones who massacred the German soldiers outside the city.

He finds Rivaille in the stables, standing in the stall with Petra’s corpse. At first he does not see him, but hears the rhythm of his breath against the strenuous, subsiding heat. Discreetly, he comes up on Rivaille, leaving the hay strewn on the floor undisturbed as to not show his approach. He doesn’t want to startle him into unnatural behavior, have him behave any different than he would when he was alone.

So it’s all the more frustrating to find him acting the way he had in the room with the others. Stiff-backed, hands in his pockets, staring down at Petra with blank eyes. Erwin moves in from the side, seeing his profile and shadow cast wide behind him in the dull lamplight. Rivaille doesn’t acknowledge his presence so Erwin believes that he has gone unnoticed.

He watches, waiting for Rivaille to speak to her. Cry. React in any way, shape, or form.

Nothing.

“Are you going to keep staring at me like that?” he asks, voice rasping slightly from disuse. His dark eyes fall to Erwin, hair shining from the gel.

Erwin blushes slightly, stands up a little straighter. “I apologize. I didn’t want to disturb your mourning.” He takes a step forward, through the threshold to stand beside Rivaille in the stall. As soon as Erwin comes close to him, Rivaille looks away. His focus is again on Petra, comfortable to ignore that he’s been joined by Erwin in this space. 

Rivaille stays quiet. Erwin lets him guide the exchange, deciding only to speak when he is spoken to. But a silence that lasts for so long starts to prickle at his skin, make the crickets outside seem like screams drowning out any thought he could possibly have. Staring down at Petra’s pale skin, seeing decay’s beginnings make their mark on her body, makes his teeth grind unconsciously. 

“I was told you were close with, Petra,” he starts. Rivaille doesn’t look up at him so he’s granted a view of his profile again. “I’m very sorry that this has happened, Rivaille.” He’s half tempted to put a hand on out on his shoulder, but he knows it won’t serve the purpose he intends it to.

“Why?” Rivaille bites back. His tone is flat, but Erwin can feel something there that suggests other feelings. It’s not guilt manifesting, he considers this, but that would be something he would understand. No, this was subtle anger, subtle blame. Those undertones of Rivaille’s speech that would go unnoticed if not for the perceptions of the incredibly perceptive; intuition leading him to the conclusion that Rivaille was taking up the offensive and he was expected to take up the defensive in return.

“What do you mean why?” Erwin asks slowly, taking the first leading steps in the dance he’s become accustomed to now. 

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill her did you? And you said it yourself, sacrificing soldier for the cause, _oui_? Those were your words after all, I heard them from your mouth. Twice.” 

Those grey eyes are black as pitch in this dramatic light. Erwin doesn’t breathe. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps he doesn't know what it is Rivaille is feeling.

“Riva-“

“She made this choice, she knew death would follow. Isabel knows too, she’s ready to die.”

The observation is so blunt it makes Erwin want to crumble down from the inside. Hange could react the way she did, Petra could lay dead, and Isabel could cry out in pain. But to hear Rivaille speak so plainly about the situation twists the knife in an unexpected way. To him, it was one thing to say these words to people, bear the bad news; but to hear one reach the conclusion in his own mind and tell him about it with his own tone of voice. To have them reflected back, spoken with such audacity and confidence.

He doesn’t think he’s showing any of these feelings or thoughts that flurry through his mind with any indication of the way he looks. Regardless, Rivaille addresses him as if he knows exactly what he's thinking.

“I am not unaccustomed to death, _soldat_.” His eyes fall back to Petra, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Despite what you think you know about me, since I am assuming you feel quite close to me now. Enough to come out here to console me. You don’t know me. And if you did you would know that I don’t want sympathy or help or whatever it is you want to give me.”

“I never claimed to know you, Rivaille. I’m not trying to give you any of those things,” He's defensive at the accusation, because it didn't have truth in it in the slightest. He _didn’t_ care about Rivaille. It was for _purposes of distrust_ that he’d spent the better part of the last month trying to unravel Rivaille’s past. Nothing more and nothing like Rivaille seemed to be suggesting.

Rivaille licks his lips but doesn’t change the focus of his stare. His voice is low, like the warning growl of an animal. “Don’t play stupid with me. I can see it in the way you look at me. You think Farlan never mentioned you’d gone prodding about where I came from?”

Really, he was a fool to think otherwise. 

Quickly he resettles into himself, realizing that he is standing over the body of a dead woman, when Hange appears in the stall door. Her gaze falls to look at Petra for a moment; taking her eyes away again as fast she let them fall there. They return to Erwin’s wide and rapidly clouding over with fresh tears.

“In the morning I’ll take news to her father, Erwin,” she says. “She’ll want to be buried with her family.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rivaille adds. When Erwin turns around he's not addressing her when he is clearing speaking to her. Instead he has his eyes newly settled on Erwin’s. “I assume you’ll all be staying here tonight while you wait for Isabel to die? I’m staying too, she’ll want me here.”

Plain and sharp like shattered glass, Erwin was understanding this Rivaille now. If the better part of him had come to console him, it would have done nothing. All that would have happened is that he would have ended up with cuts. Rivaille departs, glancing at Petra again before walking back towards the house. Erwin and Hange are silent for an undetermined stretch of time, captured by their own thoughts until a brief moment of tenderness brings Hange to Erwin’s arms. She wraps herself around his middle, leaving him to hold her about her back in a tight hug. He feels the quake of her body as she lets out her cries, heaving sobs that take all the breath in her lungs. Somehow there's  part of him that seems fulfilled; one he wasn't aware needed fulfilling.

Eventually Erwin decides to let her be alone with Petra, and before he’s made it out of the stables he can hear her start to speak to the girl as if she were still alive.

It’s a long night. Dragging out with violent anxiety. Like a guest that won’t leave. Like the fear of something just over the shoulder, but a stronger fear in looking because something may actually be found there. Rivaille stays with Isabel and Farlan in the kitchen. Ness retreats to his room after giving them leave to use whatever they had need of in the kitchen and handing Erwin a stack of blankets half his height. As Nana and Mike sit side by side in front of the fireplace, he noses at her temple and rubs her back in slow, slow circles. Erwin can hear murmurs, the sounds of them talking too low and intimate for him to hear or want to hear. Nana finally rests her head on his shoulder and starts to drift off around the same time the clock near the stairs chimes eleven. 

Erwin is alone with his thoughts and they swirl and swell with resolution, despite how many times he desperately tries to clear his head. Rivaille’s words and face, his fear and his guilt and the light fading in that man’s eyes as he watched him die at his hands. Isabel, silently dying in the other room. Petra's open eyes, empty.

He refuses to feel tired – partly from the onslaught of nightmares he’s sure await him on the other side of consciousness - and it frustrates him to be blinking off sleep the way he is. At some point in his lucidity, Mike and Nana disappear to the room that’s been left for them to stay in. So he is alone, still wearing his blood strained shirt but thankfully clean beneath it again. It’s colder in the house, with the absence of the late spring sun for so long and he wraps a blanket around himself while he struggles to keep blinking.

“You’ll fall asleep without coffee.”

He expects it to be Hange, but his thoughts are slow to gather before Rivaille comes into his line of sight. In his hand he carries a mug, filled to the perfect height so as not to spill the steaming coffee onto the rug. With precise balance he approaches and hands it to Erwin. He's cleaned faced, having washed the make up away at some point between the stables and now.

“Don’t spill it and waste it. That’s the last of it,” he says, eyes on the liquid. Erwin stares up at him, feeling entirely awake now out of shock alone. The action seems too nice for Rivaille to do for him.

“Thank you, Rivaille,” he replies almost dazedly, and takes the mug with both hands, craning his neck to sip the coffee at the top with a loud slurp.

Rivaille pulls a face, “Tsch, disgusting.”

He mutters something else before he settles on the couch next to Erwin. It doesn’t seem to bother him, how small the sofa is. Erwin is large enough to take up more than one of the allotted cushions. It leaves a space barely big enough for Rivaille to fit and he nestles himself in with relaxed familiarity. His arm is slung over the back of the couch, behind Erwin’s back.

Erwin can’t hide the soft smile, “My apologies. That was rude.”

“I don’t care. Drink it how you want.”

This is a different Rivaille, he realizes quickly. Different to the one out in the stables. There is a change in him, an ease in character just by the way he sits, the cadance of his voice. His eyes are the same, of course, and remain away from Erwin.

Neither say anything and the clock behind them feeds the room with sound, harmonizing with the crackling fire, freshly stoked by Nana or Mike on their departure. Erwin hates that he keeps looking to Rivaille, keeps studying the profile in the half-darkness and watching for the slightest change in his face. It’s morbid curiosity that keeps him looking even after being discovered. He decides, in some stupor, that now is the time to bring up his quickly clarifying thoughts.

“When I looked into your past, Rivaille,” he starts. “It wasn’t to help you.”

Rivaille glares at him, eyebrows furrowing more than usually do and with something in his face that would suggest even disbelief.

“You’re bringing that up now, Erwin? Really?”

Erwin immediately bites back his tongue. “I didn’t mean to be offensive. You ought to know it wasn’t because I was determined to see you in need of charity. Perhaps you might chalk it up to my need to know everyone’s intentions. You aren’t exactly the most straightforward person in those terms. I merely…needed to know for certain that you were on our side.”

Half-truths. He knows why he asked Farlan in reality. He'd come to that conclusion, painful it was. But what was he supposed to say to Rivaille? Surely he couldn't admit it? It’d do know good to mention the way his heart ached when- 

No it wouldn’t do good at all. 

“And I’ve passed your test? Do I have your precious trust?” Rivaille asks, scowl setting even deeper. The scorn in his voice makes Erwin rub at his own neck.

“Yes.”

The backs of his knuckles brush over Rivaille’s hand and immediately grey eyes go to where there skin makes contact. Erwin goes to move his hand away, unease showing on his cheeks in a deep red blush. He curses it, as he always does, and the way it must show even more in the firelight.

But Rivaille grabs his hand before it fully departs from the vicinity of his skin. He holds it, by the wrist, and catches it in his other hand. Erwin swallows hard, looking down at Rivaille as he looks down in inspection. Absentmindedly, Erwin sets the coffee on the table just beside him.

“Your fingernails are filthy. Don’t you ever clean them?”

Erwin laughs nervously and then flexes his jaw slightly. “It’s no use. I'm always getting them dirty.”

This has all the heaviness of that night. The one he’d tried to ignore that constantly crept up in his dreams and in flashes of memory. Rivaille's mouth on his, their bodies nigh independent of one another. But still, something is different. Something that make his heart press at his chest and fill his ears. Something that makes him ache to reach out to him but suddenly and horribly to shy and ashamed to do something so bold as that.

It swells in him, the desire he has to hold Rivaille and tell him that he is sorry for all he’s done even though Rivaille won’t respond in the slightest. He’s aware of that, the distance he wedges between himself and everyone else. But there’s foolish hope that perhaps Rivaille might open himself up to him. The thoughts that race through his head all at once get to be too much and he shuts them off with harsh resolve.

His hand goes to close into a fist but Rivaille pries it open with both of his own. His fingers moved inward onto his palm, tracing over calluses with something like curiosity. There’s tenderness there, too. It’s terribly intimate and Erwin feels that resolve crumbling all over again.

“What are you doing?” he asks finally. Rivaille doesn’t answer, but looks up at him with his hands stilled on the breast of his. When their eyes meet there’s Rivaille in them. Not the stare he’s accustomed to now. Openness. Innocence. Fear. He’s not entirely sure what to classify it as, but it’s gone in a moment with Rivaille turning his head away to look down at the carpet.

Erwin can’t describe where the urge came from, or why he couldn’t stop it, but all at once he finds himself bringing Rivaille’s hands to his mouth. Gently, ever so gently, he kisses his knuckles. His eyes stay open, taking in his reaction, because even though he feels no control over this act, he knows he’ll allow himself to do no more than this. This is the consolation he'll offer. The moment feels stolen, as does the shocked looked Rivaille gives back to him.

They stay locked in their gazes for what seems like too long, but Erwin won’t be the first to look away. Not for the reasons he had before, this was not a stand-off. This time it was steadfast, hard promising, and trustworthy. 

He’d said he’d give no more comforts to Rivaille, but he gives himself one more opportunity. As if a meeting of eyes would fit to say more than a conversation between the two ever could. Silent reassurance, sympathy, strength.

It’s enough to send Rivaille forward, pressing his lips slow into Erwin’s like he intends to melt into him. He kisses him like he wants to disappear in him. It sends such a shock straight down into Erwin’s spine that he reflexively pulls away, looks away, takes his hand out from under Rivaille’s so that they fall limply onto his own lap again.

He doesn’t want to look over his shoulder, for fear what he might find there.

The words fumble out of his mouth, unprocessed and uncharacteristic.

“I’m sorry, Rivaille. I didn’t-“

“Don’t be.”

There's shifting on the sofa, and the fear of Rivaille getting away again, of he himself leaving, makes Erwin bolder than he expects to be. He reaches out for Rivaille’s hand again; they don’t look at one another as they lace their fingers together and press their palms tight together. Erwin’s hand is bigger, and his fingers are thick between Rivaille’s, but they fit neatly as if they were meant to all along.  

Erwin can feel his stomach turning over, pulling and pushing with nerves jumping like a spark. He feels the dull burn of his skin, telling him to pull away, telling him to pull closer, shifting to and fro with indecision and unease and the perfect feeling of belonging, of rightness.

It’s ages that they stay that way, and Erwin lets himself slip into a comfortable position on the couch. His legs spread wide and touch the knee of Rivaille’s crossed leg. One more place of contact on their bodies - Erwin keeps careful notice of each one. Rivaille leans his head inward, hovering on the couch cushion near Erwin’s shoulder. Close enough that Erwin counts it too.

Their hands are hidden, held, beneath the blanket over Erwin and sometime after he falls asleep Rivaille pulls it a bit more onto his own body so that they're sharing it. And when Erwin wakes up just before dawn, he’s not sure if Rivaille has his head resting against his arm by accident or on purpose. He doesn’t want to question it.

Instead he leans into Rivaille and noses at his hair, the way he watched Mike do to Nana with adoration, and smells him.  He's spice and sweat and hair gel. Erwin revels in the texture of it, slicked back and slightly mussed from his sleep. He leans back, looking at his sleeping face, making sure the memories take hold in his mind so they won't be forgotten.

With the utmost clarity of mind, he leans in, knowing that they are totally alone, and kisses him gently on his sleep slack, open mouth. Rivaille exhales against his lips, stirring silently and letting his eyes flutter open. He kisses back gently and when they rest their foreheads together they stare through sleep heavy eyes. Rivaille has readjust to accommodate the new position, not to question the intimacy or to protest against it. He’s lucid, certainly, just the way Erwin is, but there’s that openness in his eyes again. Erwin's heart flutters.

They fall asleep together again, like that, Erwin leaning down to him and Rivaille leaning up. It’s a miracle to find, when he wakes, that Rivaille managed to slip away without disturbing his sleep, under the strength of his weight. Everything rapidly falls in on itself, and Erwin wonders if he dreamt it all. A part of him wishes that he had.

In the light of day, bursting through the windows with unrelenting summer heat, Erwin feels the shame settle back in. The hate that he misses Rivaille there and is desperate for him to be near again. He swallows hard, rubbing at his face with worry that perhaps somebody had seen them that way. Hange or Mike or Nana or Farlan, anyone who could easily bring it up again or tell the people that Erwin relied on for respect. The feeling in his stomach makes him feel dizzy, like he might vomit.

In that daze he has his eyes closed, breathing unevenly as he rests his head on the back of the sofa. He tries to collect himself, quickly, as he hears shifting in the kitchen and footsteps coming towards him. His eyes open slowly to Rivaille in the doorway, peering at him. He’s clean and readjusted, without the muss of his hair Erwin remembers from only hours before.

Erwin addresses him by pressing his lips together and rolling them slightly, nothing more. Certainly there's not anything to be said. Rivaille manages to speak anyway.

“Isabel is dead, Erwin,” he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -soldat means soldier  
> -Tenir ta main means holding hands
> 
> Not a lot of French or History this time!


	9. Chaleur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do not want you, Erwin Smith.
> 
> He had said that the first night that they’d met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finally back! I had some personal issues and some SERIOUS writers block. So to make it up to you, friends, I present to you a super sized chapter (twice the size of any other chapter I've put out so far)! Thank you guys for reading and putting up with the spontaneous month long hiatus.

They gather at the Ailes two days later. Some are present when they put Isabel and Petra into their separate plots in ground in graveyards clear across the city from one another. Erwin is not invited to either of the ceremonies. He doesn’t think he would have gone either way. Rather he's content to bring flowers to their headstones; white lilies that were worth all the money he kept in the tin beneath his bed.

He remembers both his mother and father’s funerals. When he was just a boy he didn’t understand why they were putting his mother in the ground, covering her up with dirt so she could not breathe in the strange wooden box they had laid her in.

When his father dies he wears his uniform, the epaulets blowing in the winter wind with snow seeping into his boots with each blast of gunfire marking the time like ticks of a clock. Mother’s grave is nestled beside father's, small, like she was, and humble by comparison to the grandeur of a war hero’s plot. He is twenty-four and he feels orphaned. To this day he feels that emptiness and he doesn’t believe that it will ever quite disappear.

The club is filled to the brim with patrons in shades of black and grey. On the stage, Nana stands in a long black dress, veiled hat tucked into her finger-curled white-blonde hair and red lips forming around a melancholy song. Still she smiles softly, as the song speaks of hope for a better place. People talk in a hum. They laugh and touch shoulders reassuringly, pour drinks from the bottles into cups that aren’t theirs and glance up to Nana every now and again. 

Two days was enough sadness for the French Erwin supposes. There is no austerity here. No sadness for loss, but a celebration of the life and the light on the horizon for Isabel and Petra. 

Oluo, Gunther, and Erd sit at the regular booth with Hange and Mike. They talk with a curve to their lips like smiles not yet past the stage of mourning, but breaking through in cracks: made from laughter and pleasure in the alcohol permeating their blood.

“She always made fun,” Oluo scowls, his French as rapid as it ever was and just as unapologetic. Erwin sits down at the booth, beside Mike - who does not listen to what Oulo says for the sake of listening to his Nana sing. They all acknowledge Erwin with a nod, apart from Hange who passes him the brandy with a cloudy smirk, and Mike, who squeezes his shoulder without looking at him.

“She was the only one who would say how much of a fool you were,” Gunther points out with a smile.

Oulo scowls, “So you think I’m a fool?”

Erd speaks softly, “You almost bit your tongue off on your horse the other day, Oluo.”

“And Petra always told you not to talk and ride. But you never listened,” Gunther adds. “ _And_ you were always tripping over your own feet trying to do those dances she’d make up for the two of you because you were always too stubborn to listen to her direction.”

They chuckle, including Erwin. Oluo scoffs and looks off.

Hange smiles, “She did love you Oluo. You were like a brother to her. She’d talk about you all the time, always saying what nonsense happened at rehearsal.”

“She was a good girl,” Erwin says finally. They nod in agreement and then fall into respectful silence. Erwin doesn’t want to look at their faces, but does as they all sit silently with their eyes glassed over with moments from the past playing like a film in their head. Vignettes of her life blink in his own eyes like the flickering reel of a silent film. He only knew her for a short while. He only knew Isabel for a short while.

Their absence could be felt like a phantom limb. But Erwin was quite aware they were never coming back.

It weighs on him.

“Has Farlan or Rivaille arrived yet?” he asks.

The last he’d seen either of them they were sat in the back of cab headed towards Paris proper. Rivaille hadn’t said a word to him after giving him the news. He hadn’t made contact, physical or otherwise. He hadn’t cried either.

“They should be here soon if they haven’t already arrived,” Hange supplies. “Rivaille has been staying with Farlan. I went to visit this morning."

Erwin nods, but Hange has more to say. She traverses into English.

“He asked about you, Eriwn. Rivaille asked if you’d be coming to tonight.”

His eyes go to hers and he blinks once, twice. Level where his heartbeat was not.

“I'd imagine it would be quite obvious that I planned to. They died under my command.”

All at once the eyes of his friends cannot bear to meet Erwin's. The militarism with which he behaved has clearly struck a nerve in them. He feels shame, but is resilient against it. They were girls, yes, but soldiers too. He wouldn’t argue that fact with them, not today. But he would not cheapen what they’d done by calling them simply girls or friends. They were his comrades. Which was a bond Erwin held deeper in his heart than any other love he’d felt.

Hange leans towards him, speaking in a lower voice so the others cannot hear over Nana's song, “He just asked. He seemed pleased when I told him yes and he told me he wanted you there.”

She shrugs, managing a smile. Erwin hides his blush with the rim of his glass as he drinks. He sets it down, glancing at the stage. “I'd wager he’ll perform tonight.”

“Perhaps,” Hange says, converting back to French. “I think I could use some cheering up. We all could. I’ve never seen Rivaille perform an act that was sad.”

The table clears eventually and the lot is replaced by Nana. Mike and Hange remain, of course, nestled into their regular spots like statues occupying their pedestals. Nana curls into Mike, keeping her veil across her face when she leans up to stamp his mouth with the red print of her lipstick.

“How are you, Nana?” Erwin asks with a smile.

She nods, curving her mouth, “I’m well, Erwin. It’s good to see you here tonight. Everyone is very grateful for your presence.”

He glances down at his glass out of humility. Receiving thanks was never a something he excelled in.

Nana takes his forearm in a gentle grasp, “You lead us. We all look to you for guidance and in a time like this, there are a lot of us that need the support to move forward. No matter how well we look.” She glances out at the floor, where people are even beginning to dance to the song Shadis has started Oluo.

She drops the subject after that. Tonight, he doesn’t feel like anyone needs to hear a him speak about the merits of war and casualty, how important it was to continue their efforts. He’d rather them be surrounded by their friends and he’d rather to be surrounded by his friends. All of them; drinking and smiling and dancing along as the acts filter through like fireworks. Momentary bursts of excitement and happiness as everyone stares up in awe with little smiles on their faces.

He laughs until his sides ache and drinks the brandy to numb them. Hange is regaling the group with stories about Petra. Nana tells them about her own experiences with the girls, how lovely a dancer Petra was and how Isabel always lit up the room. Eventually she leads Erwin to the floor so that they can dance, despite his protests, and he enjoys dancing with a woman again. She is small in his arms and never misses a graceful step; letting herself be spun round and round until Mike comes for her.

Zacklay discuss a plan to call a meeting the following night. Erwin decides to spread the word by morning, giving them all one night of freedom from the burden they carry. He speaks to many people, about the songs that are sung and the red of the girls' hair and the tenacity in the way they both fought. But never do they speak of the war that burns the world into embers just outside, or of the looming presence in their own streets.

He’s back in his seat when Farlan walks out on stage, carrying a chair to be placed in the center. Some people clap and cheer to see him, one from the crowd whistles and up before all the lights he tries to hide his smile.

The piano begins a tune, soft in melody but quickly hurries into something wild with swing. It’s very American, loud and exciting, and Erwin watches the room burst into light with the sheer joy the music creates.

Rivaille comes out onto the stage, riding the music like a wave. He’s Violette today with a wig done up in plush black curls, his face painted to accentuate every feature he was graced with. He wears a dress so stunning that Erwin can’t help but gape up at the stage like he was beholden to a goddess.

It’s shimmering gold, beaded all over and set with jewels and stones to make it reflect the stage lights across the room. At most it’s a leotard, cutting up high on his hips to expose the skin that’s covered by nude fishnets. Beads dangle from the hem to make a skirt of sorts, short in the front and longer in the back so that it hits the backs of his knees as he walks out.

He smiles as the crowd cheers and is bold enough to blow a kiss to nobody in particular, but there must be over a dozen that believe it belongs to them. He raises his gold gloved hands to silence send silence all over the room.

“Now, now, boys and girls,” he says. Then he lifts a finger to his lips, “Shhhh.” The bands plays quieter and the audience hushes itself to a few hecklers scattered amongst the crowd.

“It’s been a rough couple of days for all of you,” he says. “A charming young man told me as much. You might know his name?” He raises a hand to his ear and as if they all were told the answer to the question before it was asked, they shout back in near unison. “Rivaille!”

Violette giggles. Her voice is higher than Rivaille’s and Erwin could see them as different people if he weren’t so distinctly Rivaille. It's almost strange to hear him speak in French, after dreaming only of his the thick English he chose to use around him.

“That’s the one,” he says to the crowd. “He and I have one thing in common. Do you want to know what that is?”

The crowd shouts back answers; some are vulgar enough to make Erwin blush. He drinks his brandy, glancing to Mike, Nana, and Hange to see if they’re as embarrassed by the subject matter as much as he is. They aren’t of course and their attention and smiles are Rivaille’s alone.

Who is now holding onto the back of the chair Farlan brought out for him and he puts one knee onto it, leaning towards the audience conspiratorially. “We both love a blonde.”

Rivalle’s eyes burn into Erwin’s skin and while the crowd laughs, he feels shame pool up inside of him. Nobody looks at him, but Hange glances out of the corner of her eyes with an approving smile that he wishes she hadn't have given him. Rivaille starts to sing on stage, something about German soldiers and how handsome and tall and strong and equally stupid they are.

Erwin isn’t exactly paying attention.

He can't think of anything else but the way his body responds. On the way his heart pounds under his ribcage like he’s been running, and his stomach folds over and in on itself until he’s restless and grinning for no reason. The shame is there, it’s obstructing and blinding, but there’s adrenaline. There’s happiness and excitement and desire.

He looks back to the stage, sitting forward on the edge of the booth seat as if leaning into the song. He catches back up as Rivaille sings with a heeled foot up on the chair.

_Good evening Lieutenant_  
 _Have you got your gun loaded?_  
 _If you need to search my spaces_  
 _I’ll tell you about a few secret places_

He steps up onto the chair with his other foot and stands. His body rolls with the music, hips popping from side to side as the trumpet calls out for them.

_Guten Abend Leutnant_  
 _Do they call you the ideal?_  
 _I’ll believe it when I see it_  
 _And we’ll see if you can beat the way the Frenchmen…_

The song builds on itself, piano and brass reaching up as Rivaille holds his note. And as the song silences itself, Rivaille jumps up catching himself on the chair in a straddle so that the crowd screams and shouts with delight.

_Make me feel._

Erwin completely loses track of the lyrics again when Rivaille starts to grind his body down onto the chair. He gets up and dances around it so he can move it parallel to the audience. Erwin watches his profile, sees his knees give him momentum to move. His body waves, rolls, ass pushing out in a way that makes his mouth go dry. He feels hot. Too hot for his buttons to be done up so high on his chest.

Rivaille dances on the chair in different positions, grinding himself against the back and facing the other way so his head is tipped back to expose his pale neck to the stage lights. The crowd cheers and Rivaille sings, but Erwin’s ears are dull to sound and his own breathing fills the silence.

He’s had far too much brandy. He’s had far too much time to dream about the way Rivaille kisses him.

The act ends so quickly, too quickly, but yet in enough time that Erwin can stave off the way he’s found himself starting to get aroused in his seat. Nana and Mike are laughing hard, Hange is repeating the lyrics.

“We ought to sing that to the next German bastard we see eh Erwin?” Hange shouts to him.

The grin he throws her lacks effort, “Yes. I’m sure they’d like that very much.”

If they include him in the conversation after that point he doesn’t realize it. He gets lost inside himself, thinking his drunk hazy thoughts until he finally spots Rivaille coming back out on the stage with a glass of his own filled half way up with Erwin assumes is his own store. His hair is sweaty and bent from the pressure of his wig cap and his make-up is gone. He wears a light blue shirt, open at the neck, and trousers. From the neck down he looks spectacularly neat.

Erwin stands then, just as Nana reappears - he hadn’t even noticed her absence. She stops in front of him, wearing trousers again and one of Mike’s shirts tied up at the waist to fight off the summer heat outside.

“Are you coming home, Erwin? It’s nearly one in the morning, we’re going to close soon.” The English she uses with him is familiar enough to give him clarity of mind, albeit momentarily.

Mike comes to stand behind her. He walks with a control even alcohol couldn’t disrupt. Though the way his hair has fallen into his face and the all-over flush he’s developed is the tell that he’s absolutely smashed.

“Do you need help, _ami_? You’re swaying a little. I didn’t realize you’d gotten so drunk.” He laughs and then hiccups.

Nana grins and moves to hold him, “I think that’s just how drunk _you_ are, _chouchou_. And I am quite…well I’m not sober either, but Erwin is standing perfectly still.”

Erwin laughs at Mike and puts a hand on his shoulder, “The two of you can go home without me.” He glances back at Hange in the booth, who has struck up a one-sided conversation with Shadis about combustibles. “I’m going to stay here until I need to leave. I’d like to check on Rivaille and Farlan, since I've yet to have the chance.”

He glances towards the stage, where Rivaille has taken a seat with his legs dangling off the edge. There are considerably less people now, and more trickling out by the moment, but Rivaille is making conversation with some of the few that remain.

“Alright then,” Nana smiles softly. “Get home safe, Erwin. I’ll see you soon.”

Mike reaches out and grabs his cheeks, kissing both of them, “Farewell!”

Nana is laughing as she pulls him away. As they disappear into the exiting crowd he can hear her practically giggling, think that perhaps he's hearing something when she utters:  _Tu es impossible, Zacharie_.

Rivaille catches eyes with him before he makes it to the stage. He stares, as he always does, the grey blue of his irises siding with the blue on this particular evening. The crowd turns around as Erwin approaches, following Rivaille’s line of sight.

“Hello, Rivaille,” Erwin says, only with a little tug at the corner of his mouth. It's a poor attempt at a sympathetic smile that dies in the preliminary stages of being.

“If you’ll excuse me, there’s a grimness to the way he said my name that makes me think this is quite important.” Rivaille speaks in quick French, in a way Erwin's not used to hearing. There’s an animation to his voice, the performance quality that doesn’t leave the stage.

The people that surround him disperse obediently, giving unreturned goodbyes. Rivaille has his full attention on Erwin, waiting for him to speak first. At this height he’s perfectly at his eye level and it’s almost uncomfortable to address him without looking down.

“How are you?” Erwin starts, hoping that will lead him down the line of thought the brandy is currently blocking. Where, perhaps, at the end there is something better to say.

“I look like I’m doing alright don’t I?” Rivaille says flatly. He takes a drink, setting it down beside him on the stage. “I meant what I said before; death isn’t anything new to me. Isabel believed in God. I’m sure she’s doing just as well in heaven.”

Erwin is curious, “Do you _not_ believe in God, Rivaille?”

He crosses his arms, cocking his head slightly as studies Erwin over. “No. You certainly look like a man who does though.”

“Not really,” Erwin answers quickly. “Faith is something I’ve struggled with.”

Rivaille raises his eyebrows, taking another drink, “Is _that_ why you’re always running away when we kiss?” His tone is brittle and bitter in a way that has Erwin taken aback. There’s a pause, and Erwin flexes his jaw slightly.

 “I just came to see if you were alright, Rivaille. It makes me very happy to see that you're in good spirits. If you'll excuse me,” He says, turning away.

“Are you leavin? Again?” A cigarette makes its way between his lips and he lights it with a match. His eyes are focused on the task of his hands and he doesn’t look at Erwin. “Don’t tell me I’ve offended you so much already. We haven’t even gotten to the part where we kiss.”

Erwin’s eyes narrow, “Do you not want me here? Because clearly I’ve offended you in some way.”

Rivaille’s eyes narrow, landing on Erwin’s face with a sudden intensity he doesn’t back away from this time. “I’m in rare form tonight.” He pats the space beside him on the stage. “Sit, Erwin.”

It doesn’t take much of an effort for Erwin to hoist himself onto the stage. His feet are barely off the ground. Whereas Rivaille would have to properly jump to reach the floor below. Of course Rivaille notices this and mutters under his breath, “ _Ridicule_.”

Erwin can’t help his smirk, “I thought you liked tall blondes.”

Rivaille shoots him a look that practically melts his skin clean off him it’s so hot with fury and Erwin can do little else but laugh.

“You’re proud of that one aren’t you?” Rivaille says, dragging from his cigarette, rolling his eyes as he looks away.

“Immensely,” Erwin says, surveying the club as Rivaille does the same. They’re the only people that remain, aside from Zackly at the doors, leading the last of the group outside. He glances back to where Erwin and Rivaille are sitting, gives them a nod and the leaves.

“I have a key,” Rivaille explains.

The club is quiet. The lights are bright on the floor. Erwin is infinitely aware that they are alone.

He can hear Rivaille breathe as he takes in another lung full of smoke. The slow exhale, like a hiss, draws Erwin’s eyes back to to him. There’s nothing different about him, nothing to indicate mourning or grief. He looks as he ordinarily does, same straight backed stance and marble stare.

But Erwin does notice the bruises that paint over his right hand. He goes to reach for it, but stops himself. “What happened?”

Rivaille address the question as if he doesn’t know what exactly he means. “Mm? Oh, Farlan and I got into a scrap after the funeral. He was high-strung, angry.”

Farlan hadn’t looked particularly upset when he appeared on stage earlier. In fact, he was smiling. “But he’s alright now?” Erwin inquires.

He’s answered with a shrug, “He’s taking her being gone much harder than the rest of us. Even Hange is doing better about Petra than he is about Izzy. I told him do go home after I was done with my performance. He doesn’t want anyone to see him crying and he’s hardly stopped since it happened.”

Erwin remembers catching him in the kitchen, still perched next to Isabel’s table as if she still remained.

“It seems like he blames himself,” Erwin observes.

Rivaille drags from his cigarette again, looking down at the laces of his shoes, “He’s been looking out for her his whole life. I’m sure he feels as if it was his responsibility to protect her.” He pauses. “But I’ve told him that isn’t true. We all knew how much of a…” He struggles to find the right words.

“Thrill seeker?” Erwin offers. Rivaille nods.

“She wouldn’t have listened to any of us if we told her not to do this. I did try. She thought I was kidding.” Her lets out a huff of a laugh and Erwin faces him again. The alcohol makes him feel like he’s being pushed and pulled by an invisible current. It’s a miracle his mind is as clear as it is.

“But are you alright, Rivaille?”

Rivaille looks at him, scowling, “I told you already that I was.”

Erwin gives him a weak smile, “Yes…yes, but I’m not inclined to believe you. You lost two friends in the span of a few hours. I want to be certain that you’re doing well after something like that.”

He scoffs at Erwin, looking back for his drink so he can take a long gulp. His throat bobs. “Why? Because you care about me?”

“Would you be really be so surprised if I did?” Erwin asks impulsively. His eyebrows knit together and the ebb and the flow is dragging him into Rivaille’s space. Their knees are nearly touching now; he can feel the heat from Rivaille’s body through the fabric of his trousers.

“I suppose not.”

Rivaille’s looking away again and closes himself off as he takes another swig from his glass. They are silent and Erwin is certain he can hear the water moving through the pipes its so devoid of sound in the empty club.

“You did kiss me after all. More than once,” Rivaille says finally. Their eyes meet at the same time. Erwin think he's teasing again, but there's a seriousness in his tone that leads him to believe that he isn't. “While I was asleep. It woke me up. I thought I was dreaming it for a moment but…” He moves closer to Erwin, turning to face him by swinging a leg up onto the wooden board stage. At this distance he can see where the vestiges of black eyeliner still cling in Rivaille’s eyelashes.

“You’re tender with me,” he says. “And you’re practically obsessed with comforting me and helping me despite me telling you I don’t need any of your help.” Erwin is blushing deep, his hear thrumming into his ears at an alarming rate. The current is guiding him, moving his hand out to rest next to Rivaille’s leg; angling is body into Rivaille’s personal space as he goes to speak.

“You let me kiss you. You stayed to sleep beside me even though you could have left.” They sound like arguments, but there’s no quarrel. He means to list the ways that Rivaille has been tender in return, shown him that despite his cold exterior, he holds some warmth for him.

“Well, of course, you idiot. I want you.”

Rivaille says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

_I do not want you, Erwin Smith._

He had said that the first night that they’d met.

The words repeat over and over in Erwin’s head until they lose all meaning. Perhaps, he’s grinning. He isn’t sure. He can’t feel a thing after Rivaille leans in to kiss him.

His hands feel enormous against Rivaille’s cheeks, and it’s still as strangely pleasing, as it was before, to have him be so small by comparison. The distance between them gets shorter and shorter as the kisses go from closed-lipped sweet pecks to the heated way they’d kissed before.

He shouldn't be doing this.

With Erwin sitting on the stage the way he is, Rivaille is able to make it into his lap, straddling him and wrapping his arms around his neck. His fingers run through Erwin's hair, disheveling the blonde locks and sending gooseflesh from his scalp down to the base of his spine. Erwin holds Rivaille close to him, arms crossed around his waist so their stomachs press together, their hips press together, their cocks press together.

Erwin tastes him and it’s now so familiar to him that he realizes how much he’d missed it in the interim. When he’s licking over Rivaille’s teeth, he’s rewarded with a soft moan and the slide of Rivaille’s tongue over his.

Rivaille kisses him desperately, like he’s incapable of getting close enough to him. There’s a surprising amount of force in the way he presses their mouths together, in the way he holds his arms tight around Erwin’s shoulders. His hand grip at his shirt, holding onto him as he starts to roll his hips, taking his entire body with them as he had on the chair earlier that evening.

The moan that escapes Erwin’s lips cuts through the quiet room. It echoes and Rivaille pulls back to look down at him as it reverberates through the empty club. He looks down at the blue eyed stare Erwin gives back with an openness that makes Erwin feel honored to behold. The opportunity to take every part of Rivaille in like this is not wasted, and he focuses on those slick, lipstick stained lips, the bluer shade of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks.

Rivaille shifts his hips again, grinding them against Erwin through his pants. The flat palms against Rivaille’s back feel all the movement as he does so. There’s something about the way he uses his entire body to do it makes Erwin’s cock jump. He stifles the moan this time by clamping down on his bottom lip, catching it in the back of his throat.

“Rivaille,” he says tightly, trying to force words out around the sounds that demand release. But Rivaille doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause, doesn’t give Erwin any mind as he grinds down on him.

Shame blooms again, the familiar voice that tells Erwin that this is wrong and he shouldn’t want this and…

Rivaille kisses him and he feels Rivaille’s moan in his mouth. Everything falls away.

He’s familiar with the feeling of a person in his lap, riding him. Before they were women, but Rivaille moves better than any woman he was ever with. He arches his back, sending the movement down in a wave, and reaching the full length of him through the rough fabric. The innate sense to grip Rivaille’s hips and guide them to just the perfect angle is something that Rivaille responds to with a gasp.

His hands grasp onto Erwin’s shoulders and his thin black eyebrows knit up as he pulls another moan from Erwin’s lips. In the heat of it all, Erwin nearly forgets that Rivaille has the capacity to enjoy this as much as he is.

Once he catches the pleasure on Rivaille’s face, he can’t look away from it. Now he can feel the hardness of his cock as it fleetingly passes over his, he can see the flush in his cheeks deepening red. He can hear how he struggles to breathe.

Erwin moves one hand to flatten against the lowest part of Rivaille’s back while the other comes to cup his face. He wants to feel the sweat in his hair and the heat in his cheeks. He wants to run his fingers over the slickness of mouth.

Rivaille catches one of his fingers as it passes and takes it inside. He holds is wrist, looking down at Erwin as he licks at the tip of his finger. Erwin can hardly breathe. Rivaille closes his lips around it, sucks it into his mouth until Erwin can press down on the back of his tongue. There's not enough air in the room for the both of them it seems, and Erwin feels like he might suffocate. Rivaille drags his lips back until Erwin can hear the suction release.

“Do you like that, Erwin?” Rivaille’s mouth is lazy and slack around the vowels of his works. He smirks, grinding down on him again until Erwin is forced to answer around a moan.

“Y-yes,” he grits out. There’s no possibility of him stopping Rivaille from going on. The voice that hides behind him that keeps him away from this is silent in the face of how much he wants. How much he needs.

“Move back on the stage, lie down,” Rivaille commands. Erwin lifts him effortlessly and shuffles back until there’s space between his feet and the edge. He tries to pull Rivaille down with him when he goes to rest his back against the stage, but Rivaille puts his hand on his chest and distances them. Without the heat of him there, Erwin shivers.

His pulse hammers in his ears as Rivaille starts to get his trousers undone. And his mouth makes time stop. Erwin can’t find the will to care about how loud his moans are. His fingers claw into the mixture of sweat and gel in Rivaille’s hair. He doesn’t mean to pull on it, but the feeling of wetness and heat and Rivaille enveloping him makes him forfeit all control.

It’s been years since he’s had this. He doesn’t remember it ever feeling so good.

Rivaille takes him impossibly deep and when Erwin looks down; his mouth is taught around the thickness of him. There are eyes on him, like hot steel and radiating heat that Erwin can hardly withstand. He lets the image sear into his memory. He never wants to let it go.

His legs shift involuntarily and he's helpless to stopping his hips pushing up to Rivaille’s mouth, but he's never stopped. Instead, Rivaille moans around him. He slides hands up and under Erwin’s shirt to touch skin he’s yet to even see, dragging his nails over it. He grips at Erwin’s forearms and bobs his head up and down until Erwin says his name.

“Rivaille…”

He doesn’t last nearly as long as he wants to. He warns with half formed words of how close he is - something he's familiar with having to do with the girls he'd gone with before. Rivaille doesn't stop they way they did. Rivaille keeps going until Erwin can’t hold off anymore or form words to caution for it.

He comes into Rivaille’s mouth with a buck of his hips and half shout. It pulses through him, making him shut his eyes tight with the impossible effort of trying to force himself back onto the ground from the place he’s ascended to.

Erwin can only watch as Rivaille sits up, wipes his mouth, and gets Erwin dressed back up again. His chest heaves against the stage, arms shaking as he finally manages to prop himself up.

“Erwin I w-”

And that’s all he gets out before Erwin pulls him down by his shirt.

Whatever barrier Erwin had in front of him before is broken entirely now. He gets Rivaille under him quickly enough to knock the breath out of his chest and makes him heave for air underneath Erwin’s body. His eyes are wide, mouth slack, and he pulls Erwin down to kiss him without giving a thought to how Erwin’s weight smothers him. But Erwin loves it. He likes how he consumes Rivaille, he wants his hands to feel every part of him in that delicacy that devoid of the threat of breaking.

Without giving thought to hesitation, he gets his palm flat on Rivaille’s cock. It's practically obscene, the way he arches below him and moans in response. He’s suddenly infinitely aware that they are on a stage, in his peripheral he can see the empty chairs and tables facing their way like an audience he has to impress.

He makes quick work of Rivaille’s pants and takes him in hand with a stuttering breath. He doesn’t expect the spark that flares in him at the way he's touching another man. It's overwhelming, to stroke him and revel in the way he can he feel him jolt in his hand. Rivaille is already slick at the tip so Erwin can slide over him with ease.

Erwin does it the way he likes it when done to him. And it makes Rivaille whimper and squirm. He leans back down, kissing at his jaw and lips, nipping gently to make him say his name softly in the quickly thickening accent, in the heady voice he develops.

His French is so rapid that he can’t follow it, despite him feeling entirely sober now. But he figures it’s a warning when Rivaille his trying to claw his way through the floor. He knits his eyebrows up, looking at Erwin as his panting becomes more like desperate gasps. And when he finally comes Erwin moves quickly to catch the moan with his lips.

They stay completely still, staring at one another and panting, until Rivaille offers him the handkerchief from his pocket.

“Your hand is probably a mess, I don’t even want to look at the damage I’ve done.” His mouth hardly forms around the English, leaving it practically incapable of being understood. But Erwin is fortunately familiar with the thickness of a French accent. He laughs softly and takes the offering from Rivaille with gratitude.

Once he sits back and looks down, he’s surprised to see how much a mess Rivaille _did_ make.

“I’m sure I’ll regret this in the morning,” Erwin says slowly. He looks down at Rivaille, not wanting to forget the way he looks after he comes.

Rivaille glares as he buttons his pants back up, “We’re going to have to work on your bedside manner if you plan to do this again.”

Erwin backtracks, “I mean to say that even if I do I am…pleased I didn’t run away." He rubs at the back of his neck, muttering. "I did an awful job at comforting you. I hope you know it wasn't my plan to give my condolences by doing...this.”

“Well, it was my plan,” Rivaille says with a laugh. Erwin doesn’t ever remember hearing him laugh so genuinely before. He stays still when Rivaille gets to his knees, and then his feet, graceful as ever. He looks down at himself and pulls a disgusted face.

“Would you get up already? I want to go change my shirt.”

Erwin smirks, standing to his full height and dwarfing Rivaille again. He looks down expectantly, and allows himself to be drug down by the collar of his shirt to meet Rivaille’s lips. They kiss languidly and it makes Erwin shiver to realize the taste of Rivaille’s mouth is actually the taste of his come. His hands cage his hips and he hesitates to let go when Rivaille breaks the kiss.

“Go home, Erwin,” Rivaille says with a smirk. He's happy; Erwin can sense it in him even though he does not show it as other people might.

At the last moment, Erwin is struck with the overwhelming desire to kiss Rivaille’s forehead. He does, and it makes him feel foolish immediately when Rivaille rolls his eyes.

But he’s trying to hide a smile, too.

“Out.”

Erwin glances back at him once as he exits the club and by that time Erwin has already disappeared ito the wings of the curtains. Outside it's still warm and the moon is just a sliver in the sky. It's dark and barren, but the city never looked more beautiful in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Guten Abend Leutnant means "Good Evening Lieutenant"  
> \- Vous êtes impossible, Zacharie means "You are impossible, Zachary"


	10. Consoler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erwin had started to understand the pattern: seduction or kindness then complete scathing hatred. And still these emotions remained dull across the expression on his face.
> 
> Rivaille is drinking something that Erwin can smell from across the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with another chapter! Now that school is done for the summer I have three months free. I'm aiming to update every week, hopefully more. I have a few other writing projects going on, but I really want to finish Ailes. I promise this work WILL get finished. The ending has been settled on and I know how to get there.
> 
> As always thank you for reading! Kudos and comments (or messages on tumblr) are appreciated and I'm always excited to hear reactions to updates. Especially now as the story is gaining speed!

Four days later and he still doesn’t feel regret.

After returning home from another mission the night before, he’d fallen asleep immediately with his clothes still on. The excitement of the evening sixteen blocks from his flat took the energy he had left – which he continued to preserve, along with his willpower to not fall asleep on the first bench or stoop he saw - and the remainder of the journey was dragging feet and half open eyelids. He deferred the task of bathing until morning, at which point he spent time staring at himself in the mirror until he could quiet his own thoughts.

It was the first time he’d killed anyone since the men that had killed Isabel and Petra. This time it had been only one soldier, one who had caught him walking those streets alone. He’d stopped him to check his papers, looking them over once before putting the bullet end of a gun on the tip of his nose and forcing him to get on his knees.

He had known he needed to quiet the man before reinforcements were called or a car came to take him away. So while he stood over him, fiddling with the handcuffs he’d planned to put him in, Erwin devised a plan. As he bent over behind him to slip on the cuffs, Erwin slammed his head back into the soldier’s nose.

One clean shot between the eyes. Erwin stood above him with his gun drawn for only a moment. Watching that light die before he continued his walk with perfect calm. There was no blood on his hands, and any soldiers in the area were too busy running to the gunshots and the corpse of their fallen comrade to notice him. Dragging feet. He just looked like a weary soul heading back home after a night of heavy drinking.

In the end he had been right; about the Nazi’s catching on to the resistance. Hange had distributed those cyanide pills to everyone, even the half – truly, one half of his comrades – who had left in the wake of Isabel and Petra’s death.

And now as he stares in the mirror, he sees the reflection of a man who had lost, but was not losing. He would develop a new way for them to travel, perhaps new identities, and new papers if it became necessary. He would keep everyone safe, so long as he had the power to do so.

And Rivaille. He would protect him as well.

Still everything about that night with him felt like a dream. It was too surreal, too far from his character to have been reality. Rivaille had left dull red marks on the side of his neck; that was his only evidence of the truth. His fingers are obsessed with pressing into them to feel their dull ache, even as they fade all these days later.

Nothing had ever seemed like it was missing before, there wasn’t any part of him he yearned for or felt lacking of. He had loved women and he had made love to them, come while between their thighs and ragged at the sensation of them surrounding him. Perhaps, he considers, he was fortunate to not realize anything was amiss.

Sitting in the bathtub permits his mind to wander to thoughts of Rivaille. At first they make his skin burn hot, because he can recall the weight of Rivaille’s cock in his hand, the sight of that mouth he dreamed of kissing before fit tightly around him. The night of the meeting he had stood on the same stage they’d fooled around on like reckless lovers and spoke to his men about standing resilient to their fears. Somehow it felt fitting.

The day is blessedly cool, clouds blotting through the sky to defend his easily burned skin from the assault of the early-Summer sun. With only four shirts in his wardrobe, and three ruined by missions and blood stains, he’s left with the option of fraying light blue number with buttons missing at the top. The thinning fabric allows for the light breeze to sneak past and kiss at his chest.

It’s Hange he’s going to see, the cold Hange who’d retreated into herself and twisted under the pressure of something truly, physically missing. The next morning after the party at the Ailes to commemorate Petra and Isabel, she’d resigned herself to producing hundreds of cyanide capsules. Any other person might have seen it as dedication, Erwin and those closer to her knew that this was the worst version of her imaginable.

At the meeting when she was asked by one of the men if she’d ever would have asked Petra to kill herself like this she had said:

“I don’t care about sentiment. I would have held her down and injected her with cyanide myself if I’d have known how she was to be killed.”

None of the men dared to look her in the eye after that.

It’s Nana’s idea to take her out. Naturally, she suggests the Ailes; regardless of her being incapable of keeping Hange company the entirety of the night. She elects, instead, to pop out after her performance, which has been slated into the empty spot just after the opening act. The spot Petra and Oluo occupied before her passing.

“That new girl serving drinks keeps stealing food off the table,” Mike observes. He’s interested in unrolling and rolling the cigarettes one of the others left at the table. Erwin looks at the girl in question, narrowing his eyes slightly at the strange way she bounces on the balls of her toes when she walks. It’s eerily reminiscent of Isabel, along with the way she grins at everyone she makes eye contact with.

“I’m not the only one noticing all the new people Zackly’s been hiring am I?” Erwin asks, turning back to Hange and Mike.

Hange shrugs in response, “It’s not so surprising with you stealing his employees all the time.” She grins, handing Erwin one of her sweet smelling cigars. She’s drank nearly half a bottle of brandy by the time the opening act starts. “Too bad they’re all so young.”

Erwin thinks of the blonde boy working at the front desk - the one he’d seen that night Farlan had been absent from the post - he couldn’t be any older than fifteen.

Hange leans over to him, “They’re recruits, you know. They come by to Zackly younger and younger every day asking to join. Shadis has taken them under his wing for the time being, he’s got a way with them.”

“Does he?” Erwin asks with a chuckle. Shadis most certainly did not have a way with people, let alone children.

“Well...no,” she says simply. “But he did offer and he does tend to stay in Paris while the rest of us go on missions. Pixis has been seeking out some to help in the presses, Rico needs a few for the radio broadcast she’s working on. I think eventually they’ll steal some away before we’re certain they’re old enough to join us in the field.”

“We ought to enjoy ourselves, and save all that talk for some other time. Never mingle work and pleasure, eh?” Mike suggests. He pours another glass of brandy for Hange and Erwin each. Erwin paces himself.

His mind is consumed with Rivaille and the knowledge that he’ll perform on stage again this evening makes him unbearably anxious to get through the show. He’s only half paying attention to the acts as they move on, one by one, in the hopes that it will make them go by faster.

“I was married once you know,” Hange proclaims. She’s incredibly drunk by the middle of the night’s entertainment and loud enough to compete with the band. Nana laughs, trying to shush her a little, but she’s ignored. “He’s still alive, somewhere around Paris I’m not sure where.”

Erwin and Mike share a glance, wondering how they failed to know this information.

She leans into them across the table, “Listen to me, boys. Listen well. You’ve never made love until you’ve made love with a person from your sex. I made love with my husband for four years and not once did I enjoy him _flopping_ around on me like a fish. It was terrible.” She laughs, pushing her glasses down slightly. “But when somebody knows the anatomy of what’s between your legs you see stars.”

Her eyes go to Erwin immediately with a knowing smirk. “Truly, they know just how to please you, because it’s what brings pleasure to them. Petra used to do things with her mouth that even _I_ blush to talk about here. And I’m quite possibly the most drunk I’ve ever been.”

Erwin glances away with a laugh, trying desperately to hide the redness blooming across his cheeks. Hange means no harm by it, of course, and Mike isn’t privvy to the information that Rivaille has undoubtedly been telling Hange and Nana, too, by the way she smirks. Yet, where he feels like shame should be, there is a giddy sort of pride that Rivaille had told them what had happened. Then the sharp pang of guilt of being proud of something like that in first place.

“He’s not performing tonight you know,” Nana says suddenly.

“What?!” Hange shouts. “Why not?!”

Though Hange is exaggerating for show, Erwin feels almost as alarmed.

“He doesn’t always perform. Hange you know that. I’m not surprised. He and Farlan haven’t been getting along.”

Hange nods, “He told me as much. But that wouldn’t keep him from at least coming out for a song.”

Nana shrugs, curling into Mike more, nestling under his chin. He leans down and sniffs at her hair with a smile.

“He might come out for a song. He’s fickle. You know that, too.” She looks to Erwin. “You haven’t been to enough shows to see how Rivaille gets. Performer-like. Where he throws little tantrums and won’t go on stage. They’re rare, but…”

Erwin doesn’t stop himself from blurting out, “Is he backstage? Can I see him?”

Nana furrows her brow, “I suppose. But when he’s like this we tend to leave him alone. He always bounces back, he just needs some time.”

Erwin excuses himself, and Nana gives him a curious look.

“I feel responsible for the tension, Nana. I’m sure you understand.”

He waits until he hears Rivaille’s answer through the door.

“ _Entrez_ ”

Erwin eases the door open, getting the best glimpse he can of inside through the crack of the door. Rivaille is standing in front of his vanity, head hanging down with his hands propping his sagging body up from falling. His suspenders are off his shoulders, dangling by his hips. He only looks up to see Erwin in the door frame and then her looks back down with a sigh.

“Get out.”

“Rivaille I j-”

“Get out!”

Erwin scowls and shuts the door hard. Hard enough that Rivaille looks up in shock. But instead of what Rivaille expects, he is standing in the room with him. Erwin cocks an eyebrow, looking collected as Rivaille whips around to face him, scowling in a way Erwin had never seen.

“Aren’t you British supposed to be polite?”

Erwin narrows his eyes, “Rumor. Though as a Frenchman you’re certainly upholding the flare for drama and rudeness…”

He merely blinks in response and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Today his method of dealing with Erwin seems to be the familiar disregard and trenchant conversation. Erwin had started to understand the pattern: seduction or kindness then complete scathing hatred. And still these emotions remained dull across the expression on his face.

Rivaille is drinking something that Erwin can smell from across the room.

“Nana told me you weren’t going on. She said that you had a fight with Farlan. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Oh? Nana told you that?” he lets out a bitter huff of a laugh. “Judas. Remind me never to fucking trust her again.”

Erwin sighs and then takes a step forward. “ _Are_ you alright?”

Rivaille rolls his eyes, tips the glass back against his open mouth until he’s satisfied with how much he’s had. He smacks his lips, emphasizing how wet they are with the alcohol, and then slams the glass down on the table.

“Mm. And if I wasn’t? Do you think you could help me?”

“Well, yes.” Erwin crosses his arms, stepping closer to Rivaille and dwarfing his height. “I’d like to comfort you. Even though you keep shoving me away, I think it’s clear now that I’m concerned for the way you’re feeling after all of this.” He means Isabel and Petra. Rivaille seems to understand.

But he just chuckles in the back of his throat and glares up at him, “Unless you’re here to _comfortingly_ suck my dick I’m not interested in whatever you’re planning on doing to help.”

Erwin holds his gaze for a moment, waiting until that glare subsides to his normal stare, then transitions into a scowl of confusion. Erwin flexes his jaw, and then shrugs with one shoulder.

“Fine.”

Rivaille’s eyebrows shoot up, “What?”

“I said fine, Rivaille.”

He licks his lips, shifting on his feet so he’s resting his lower back against the countertop. “You’re going to…” He smiles, a genuine smile like he had the night on the stage, but it’s sharper somehow. “You’re really that desperate to help me? I was only joking you know.”

Erwin swallows hard; his mouth and throat suddenly dry. His heart beats hard and heavy in his chest; he’s nervous, but he won’t let Rivaille see that. Unceremoniously, he drops down to his knees, hand reaching out to Rivaille’s hip to push him up.

“I’m not joking. Stand up straight.”

He abides, and Erwin takes a moment to look at the way his hand swallows the expanse of Rivaille’s side.

Rivaille’s fingers are immediately in his hair, pushing the locks apart and out of their neatly combed places. Erwin won’t look up at him as he works to undo Rivaille’s pants with careful, hard-to-keep-steady hands. Until Rivaille tugs on his hair, forcing him to glance upward.

“You’ve never done this before,” he says simply. It’s not meant to chide or shame, just a statement of fact. Erwin nods.

Rivaille looks like he might smirk, but it’s hidden quickly. “It’s safe to say, then, that you don’t regret the other night.”

“No.” Erwin returns to their work on Levi’s trousers. He’s not being entirely gentle; careful, but not gentle. His fingers tug his belt open, yank down at the zipper and pull at the buttons until the pants hang loose around his hips. The boxer shorts he has beneath are white, crisp and clean, and there’s an undeniable bulge where Rivaille has started to get hard.

Erwin glances up inquisitively, raising an eyebrow as a way to note that he hadn’t even _touched_ Rivaille yet. Certainly the “joke” wasn’t something casually tossed out as a suggestion as much as it was something he’d wanted. The fingers in his hair grasp suddenly, and Rivaille scowls.

And Erwin can’t hide his smile, “Do you really fancy me that much?”

“ _Con_. I thought this wasn’t a joke? Do something useful with your mouth.” His grip on his hair is used to guide him forward. Erwin grins - he can’t help it - and lets his slightly shaking hand press palm flat against Rivaille’s cock through his boxers. Rivaille lets out a soft, shuddering breath. His voice is low, distracted. “You are supposed to be comforting me.”

Erwin’s palm is rubbing over him slowly; tight little circles until he finds the way that will make Rivaille’s mouth fall open. When he does, he stares up at him, watching the pleasure pass over his face.

Rivaille bites on his bottom lip, shaking his head minutely and then looks up at the ceiling. “You’re smiling again,” he murmurs. His eyes fall back down, along with his head and shoulders as he crumbles in response to Erwin’s lips brushing over him though the fabric.

In truth, Erwin hadn’t even realized that he was smiling at all.

He moves experimentally, trying to ignore the familiar din of _wrong, wrong, wrong_. Instead, he focuses his eyes on Rivaille, watching for the subtle furrow of his brow, what makes his breath catch and tremble out a soft moan.

“I thought you would run away. Like the fucking coward you are,” Rivaille mumbles. His fingers push back the strands of hair on Erwin’s forehead, the ones he’d been responsible for shaking loose.

Erwin shakes his head slowly. He pulls down at Rivaille’s boxer shorts, letting them slip past over him until his cock is freed. Up close now the sight of him makes Erwin blush. He forces himself to press on; conscious to make his hand reach out, grip Rivaille gently.

“I’m not a coward.” It’s almost as much of a reassurance to himself as it is to Rivaille. He’s being smirked at now, around the curve of an open mouth, but smirked at nonetheless. This time he feels the pull of his lips and knows he’s smiling back.

“Just shut up and get on with it.”

He licks his lips this time to wet them, before he leans in and presses a kiss to the head of his cock. It’s unlikely that Rivaille isn’t noticing the way he quivers slightly, nervous, but he hopes to God that he doesn’t or ignores it out of pity. The taste of him lingers on his lips and with a terrible amount of uncertainly he presses his tongue forward against the underside of him, eyes upwards to see how Rivaille will like it.

And it’s clear he does. From the way he stares half-lidded down at Erwin, to the way he holds onto his hair, to the way his mouth is slack and open. His breathing is labored, and it’s all Erwin can hear about the wet sounds his mouth makes as he presses open mouthed kisses over Rivaille’s cock.

He shudders when he hears Rivaille moan as his mouth envelops him. He can feel himself panting now, feel the way his trousers are suddenly too tight. The sensation of him is heavy on his tongue, strange in his mouth, but something he likes too much to consider stopping.

It’s not hard, getting Rivaille’s cock all the way in to the base, until his nose is buried into the thatch of black hair that crowns him. He breathes through his nose, breathes him until he moans around him and presses his eyes shut. The way he shakes has not stopped, but he moves automatically, with confidence. Sucking at him until his cheeks are hollowed; Rivaille moans loudly above him, tips his head back until all Erwin can see is the cut of his jawline and the expanse of his throat.

He keeps moving, tipping his head from side to side and taking him as deep, deep, deeper than he can handle. It chokes him, but he doesn’t care. He wants Rivaille. He wants.

He doesn’t realize how hard his nails are digging into Rivaille’s hips until he goes to drag his hands down. The skin resists under him, and Rivaille’s breath hitches deliciously, stomach contracting and body jolting at the sensation.

“ _Erwin_ ,” he whispers. His accent is thick now, drawling under the weight of his tongue that moves helplessly in his open mouth. It tries to form words; Erwin can see the way his lips move to speak. Nothing comes out aside from the heated breaths he swallows in and chokes out.

He presses only harder at his hips, trapping them against the countertop and holding Rivaille’s gaze. There’s a deep part of him that’s snapping and shattering until something below it is turned out. He can’t feel it thrumming, like the heartbeat that pounds in his ears, like the tug of Rivaille’s hands in his hair. He sucks harder, goes deeper, moans so loud and low in his chest it comes out like a growl.

“ _Ervin_ ,” Rivaille moans - slipping into the natural French pronunciation of Erwin’s name. It’s so much like the German and the familiarity of it that lingers along with the distinctness of Rivaille makes him moan in response.

Rivaille pushes at his shoulders, trying desperately to speak - falling in to broken French and mutters of unformed words - until he succeeds in uttering out, “I’m almost there. Stop.”

Erwin pulls back, lets his hand come back up to grip Rivaille and keeps his lips against the tip of him. He’s panting, and the heat and touch of his breath on the head of Rivaille’s cock makes him visibly shiver.

His hand moves distractedly, stroking Rivaille slowly until he’s granted another shaking breath, another jolt of his body.

“I told you I was close. What the fuck are you doing? Stop it.”

Erwin shakes his head, “Why won’t you finish?”

Rivaille’s breath catches when the pad of his thumb brushes away the precome. He scowls - around his already knitted eyebrows. “What do you want it in your m-”

“Yes.” Erwin cuts him off, flexing his jaw slightly. His throat feels sore. “I want you to finish in my mouth. Like I did in yours.”

Rivaille’s eyebrows raise only just enough for Erwin to notice. He slides his hands up, fitting them under his shirt and around his waist. He’s so small, almost delicate, but he’s realizing that delicate isn’t the right word for him. “Do it, Rivaille.”

He doesn’t give him the opportunity to protest against his demand before filling his mouth with him again. He resumes the speed he had taken up before, rapidly pulling Rivaille back to the edge and reveling in the way he moans and arches. He squirms in his grasp, trying to get his hips pumping into his mouth, but Erwin catches them in his palms. He holds him firm, making him whimper softly.

“ _Salaud_ ,” he groans, pulling at the locks again until it hurts. Erwin chuckles low in his throat, moaning again. That voice is gone now - the one that reminds him that this lust is damned - and he doesn’t even recall it being present.

Rivaille finishes silently. Erwin watches the way he holds his mouth open in the shape of an “o”, shuts his eyes tight. He can feel the come hit the back of his throat, fill his mouth in a way that’s uncomfortable and satisfying at the same time. As warned, it’s bitter and unpleasant, so he swallows it quickly, but keeps bobbing his head until Rivaille is satisfied.

Then he pulls off, moves up Rivaille’s body as he stands. He supports his weight, pulls him in close so he can kiss him with one hand holding his lolling head by the softness of his cheek. He feels his chest flutter, his face heat up. Rivaille is pliant beneath him and lets his mouth be licked into and nipped gently until he stirs in himself again.

His arms that fit around Erwin’s middle move to the front of his pants, but Erwin grips his wrists to still him.

“No. Not here.” He pulls back to look Rivaille in the eye. He’s being scowled at, and he fears for a moment that he might have offended him. “Come home with me. Stay with me tonight.”

Rivaille stares back at him, searching his face for a moment with the calm, piercing eyes Erwin has come to know so well. So Erwin leans in again, presses their lips together slow and soft until Rivaille is kissing back. He speaks against them in barely a whisper. “Right now.” His hips press against Rivaille’s stomach, and surely Rivaille can feel how hard he is.

The yes isn’t so much as heard as it’s mouthed against his lips.

It’s sheer luck that they find a taxi this late in the night. They walk side by side, but show no signs of their intended actions. Rivaille is quiet, wearing a hat that covers his eyes, a summer coat over the suspenders rightly put in their place again.

Though all come off quickly when they’ve made it inside the door. Erwin holds his face in his hands, palms so much bigger than his cheeks. He guides him to the bed, pushing backwards and careful not to trample him under the force of his size. As soon as Rivaille’s back hits the bed he pulls Erwin on top of him.

This time he goes for his clothes, and Erwin lets him strip him down.

“This shirt is disgusting,” he mumbles against his lips. “There are holes in it.”

“I don’t have very many, they ruin easily,” he presses against his neck in the form of several kisses. Rivaille bares his neck to him, but doesn’t miss a beat pushing his shirt off his shoulders and rolling them over.

Erwin lies flat on the bed, looking up at Rivaille expectantly.

“I’ll get you more. I’m not doing this again unless you stop dressing like a vagabond.”

Erwin laughs.

Rivaille finds him still slightly hard, easily coaxed back into how ready he was before by the wetness of his mouth. He sucks at him earnestly, making Erwin shake and arch his body up and back against the mattress. He doesn’t feel as apologetic, pulling at Rivaille’s hair, after knowing how much Rivaille liked to be pushed and pulled and moved by him.

His hips move only just enough to make Rivaille groan and it’s the vibration he can feel that shocks through him- all a result of the head of his cock touching the back of Rivaille’s throat - that makes him finally come.

He shouts, panting Rivaille’s name as the orgasm moves through him like a shockwave. He keeps his eyes open, staring at the flaking white paint on the carved wood ceiling. This has not been real. This has been a dream. It must have been. So much of him has wanted this, a part that’s bigger than what he truly understood. And now he feels so happy, feels it bursting and boiling him. Now this, he truly can’t comprehend. It’s too much. Too much to take.

“Get your clothes off properly. I want to lie down.”

Rivaille sits beside his torso, legs tucked underneath him, but now he is totally nude. His hair is mussed, lips swollen from Erwin’s kisses and the way he sucked at his cock. Erwin’s breath catches, because he stares at Rivaille long enough in the dull moonlit room to know that he is beautiful. His body is lean and thin, pale and defined by muscle at his stomach and thighs. Too much to take.

“Stop staring. I’m tired, idiot.”

Erwin’s smiling again.

There isn’t much left to take off, and Erwin feels almost bashful to stand up naked in the room for Rivaille to see. Luckily for him there isn’t an opportunity for Rivaille to notice the way he’s blushing in the dark room.

Erwin doesn’t need to get his bed ready for Rivaille, since he’s already moved the pillows into place and the covers down like he’s been in this bed a hundred times. He settles himself under the blankets while Erwin finds his way beneath them, too.

He turns his head to Erwin, looking him over.

“I suppose you’ll want to cuddle with me, _oui_? I only made the suggestion for you to suck my cock to comfort me. You _really_ don’t need to hold me in my sleep,” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Erwin furrows his brow, “Would that be so bad?” That part that’s grown bigger in him that wanted this so dearly is suddenly scorned.

Rivaille rolls his eyes, “Well if you’re insistent about it.” Really, Erwin wasn’t insistent at all.

He tucks himself against Erwin’s side, putting an arm across his stomach. Erwin adjusts to him, putting is arm straight out so Rivaille can lay his head on his bicep. He curls that arm around him and rests his hand on Rivaille’s ribs.

It’s the feeling of Rivaille’s cock on his hip that makes him nervous. The voice returns almost immediately. It hisses and stings; sinking its teeth in until Erwin is fidgeting, turning his head away.

But Rivaille puts a hand on his chest and strokes his thumb through the light dusting of golden hair over his sternum. “Stop fucking moving around. Relax.” He sighs, and his breath tickles at Erwin’s neck. “Nobody is here to see. Don’t be damned a coward.”

It’s not entirely comforting in the classic sense, but strangely Erwin feels his head drifting back towards Rivaille’s until his cheek rests against the top of his hair. He turns to him so his nose is buried in the thick, black locks. He feels comforted. Enough to close his eyes. Enough to let the feeling of Rivaille’s rising and falling chest resonate in him.

This is Rivaille, lying beside him in bed. This is what he wanted. This is what he shouldn’t want. This.

As he falls asleep, he breathes him in. And he breathes him in through the night until morning comes. Rivaille is still sleeping when he wakes and he stays as still as he can until he wakes, too.

“Good morning, _soldat_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Entrez means come in  
> -Salaud means bastard  
> -Soldat (as always) means soldier  
> -Erwin goes by the English pronunciation of his name with the "w". However, in German (and in French) that w is a v. Despite all the characters being French, they adapt to his pronunciation of that "w". Until, this chapter of course.


	11. Blessures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erwin doesn’t waste a moment allowing the men to take up the position to fire the guns he carries. He knows what he has to do, and the path is clear. Disarm the men, ensure that no rounds are fired, and keep their location from being broadcasted.
> 
> “Déconsigner, Smith!”
> 
> They know me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back! Sorry about the wait. I've finally got back the hang of this story after another project ate up my creativity. This is unedited at the moment. I'll edit tomorrow, I just really wanted it to get out into the world.
> 
> ***Warning for violence!***
> 
> ***Light bloodplay-ish***
> 
> Comments, kudos, and messages on tumblr are always appreciated! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

**Juin 1942**

It becomes commonplace, for Rivaille to be lying at Erwin’s side when he wakes. As a boy, his father had been adamant about him rising with the sun, and it’s a habit he’s not fallen out of. Rivaille sleeps well into mid-morning, sometimes even until noon. He’s a heavy sleeper, and on more than one occasion in the past weeks Erwin has allowed himself to stay in bed past the time he’d normally start his day, just so he could continue to have Rivaille nestled into his chest.

Today is stifling, and all the windows in Erwin’s flat are as open as he can get them past the warped wood and sticking layers of paint. The modesty of the place extends to the number of windows - which amount to only three - and there isn’t much of a breeze to help them. Erwin sits at his table, cleaning his guns after a mission leading Jewish families out of Paris again went sour.

No lives were lost, but Erwin had buried a bullet into the cheek of a Nazi soldier. Again, the blood still clings to his nail beds, and Rivaille is positively disgusted with it.

His collection of firearms is expanding, nicked from Nazi corpses and misdirected supply shipments. The Luger was his preferred pistol, as he was familiar with it from his days of service, but he had six pistols and five rifles in all to select from. The machine guns and submachine guns that had been collected were stored together and moved often to evade the enemies who sought after them for possession.

Erwin himself is cautious with his own. His armory is located under a loose floorboard beneath his bed. The only things he keeps above ground are his Luger and his knife. Both of which, he places carefully in the bedside table. And there was his father’s pistol, which he has locked away in the wooden box it was given to him in.

“You are dripping with sweat and you still have my lipstick stained on your neck. It’s disgusting.”

He glances up, to where Rivaille stands in the doorframe. The summer heat has him in only his white linen boxer shorts. Though, it wasn’t as if he wore much more than that on nights he’d spent with Erwin.

“I don’t see the point in bathing. It’s too hot today, I’ll only sweat all over again.” He manages a small smile, then clicks the barrel of one of his shotguns closed by flicking it in the air.

“You have a meeting this evening.”

“Yes. Here. I’m not going out in public, and I’ll clean the lipstick.” He glances at Rivaille. “It’s too hot, Rivaille. Don’t pester.”

Rivaille cocks a brow at that, “So you are cleaning guns? To avoid the heat.”

Erwin nods, regarding him by looking back down at his work, “I am. This ought to be done before next week, I’ll be gone for a day or more and I’ll certainly need a few of these.”

Rivaille walks to the table, inspecting the guns which still lie disassembled in neat lines. Some he picks up, turns over in his hands and peers into the ends as if he expects to find something in there. He mutters something in French.

“What was that?” Erwin asks, his eyes drift to their corners so he can see Rivaille without looking up.

“I said you are a moron. But it isn’t as if you listen to anything I have to say about this cause and your involvement so I won’t waste the breath.”

Erwin leans back in his chair so he’s sitting upright; he looks at Rivaille with knitted brow. He shouldn’t be surprised to hear it, but the sound of Rivaille being at all concerned about his safety makes him start to blush. They’d been fooling around enough to expect Rivaille to get attached. But then again, he doesn’t expect Rivaille, who stood at a distance to everyone he knew, to get attached to anything.

“If you’re worried about me, Rivaille, you ought not to be. I’ve made it this long.”

“Luck runs out. And you’re an enormously tall blonde with the _Croix de Lorraine_ sewn into your jackets who uses stolen Nazi weapons. You are quite possibly the stupidest person I’ve ever met if you don’t think that makes you a fucking target.”

The corner of Erwin’s mouth tugs at a smile, “Don’t worry, Rivaille.”

He rolls his eyes, “I’m not _worried about you_ , _soldat_. Don’t give me that shitty look, I’m not your lover.”

Erwin isn’t positive when the voice went silent when they were together. He never felt himself second guessing his decision to kiss Rivaille, or feel his body fight itself as he reached out to touch him. Never was there guilt clouding his happiness when he woke with Rivaille’s hair tickling at his neck, his naked body curled up along his side. In public it was different, they never gave a clue to anyone about their relationship. There was the occasional stare, certainly, but behind closed doors they were different with one another. Erwin was different entirely.

He chuckles at Rivaille’s comment. “I never said we were lovers.”

Rivaille’s silence permits Erwin to go back to his work. He takes up the half cleaned rifle from the table and setting it back upright between his knees.

“I’m almost done,” he says without looking up at Rivaille as he comes to hover over him. Erwin’s sleeves are rolled up, but grease is smudged up and over his forearms. The shirt he still has on is that frayed blue button up that Rivaille hated so much; too tight around the chest so when he moves his arms it pulls at his back and chest, threatening to pop the button open. Erwin can see the way Rivaille watches that, running a finger over the metal shaft of one of the rifles on the table.

“Where did you get all these? Why do you even need so many?”

The unbidden way Rivaille continues to stare makes Erwin’s cheeks feel hotter than they already do in the heavy air of the flat. “Germans. And it’s always good to have options. I prefer this one that I’m cleaning if I know I’ll be riding. It’s easier to shoot from a horse. The strap makes it easy to carry while you ride, but it’s light enough not to bruise your spine.”

 _Brudder_ was thick and tall, but the new white stallion he was given was lean and quick. He rode smooth and his temperament was calm enough that the blast of a gun wouldn’t start him too terribly. Erwin had adopted the name Apollo for him, and he took to it well.

“Which is your favorite of the pistols?” Rivaille says, moving closer to him and then next to his side, putting his hand on his shoulder absently. The warmth of his palm burns across Erwin’s back and he shudders at the sensation. The grip he has on the shotgun falters in smoothing back up the shaft of the barrel.

“The one in my bedside drawer. But if I have to choose one from the table I’d…” Rivaille’s fingers draw up the back of his neck, into the tiny hairs just below his hairline. Chills roll over his skin and an ache has begun to throb, low and deep in his belly. He swallows hard, looking towards the table.

“I’d choose the Walther PPK. That brown one just there.”

Erwin looks to him while he picks it up off the table without it ever making the scraping sound of being dragged against the wood. He admires it the way a person who was familiar with pistols would, checking for certain components and nodding as he found them. All the while his fingers idle at the skin on the back of Erwin’s neck where he draws tight circles and teases at the notches of his spine. Erwin’s mind isn’t present when he leans into the touch.

“It’s shaped in such a strange way. Why do you prefer this one?”

Fingers move to sensitive, untouched skin at the back of Erwin’s ear. They travel down the side of his neck and follow his pulse. The action is so casual to him, and that makes it all the more seductive to Erwin. He can feel his breath coming out in short puffs, heat suffocating him in the room.

“It’s small. Powerful. Apt to be concealed and then revealed when the moment strikes.”

Rivaille’s voice is dry. “You’re so poetic.”

Nails gently drag over his collar bone and it draws out a soft sound from deep in Erwin’s throat. He can’t see Rivaille, but he’s certain he must be smirking. His nails slide down over his chest, along the bony definition of his sternum well under the fabric.

“And you’re distracting.”

Erwin sets the rifle down, glancing over his shoulder at Rivaille standing over him. He still has the gun in his hand nonchalantly glancing back as if his other hand was unaccounted for.

He then scowls when Erwin doesn’t turn back. “Are your guns really that much more important than having me here? _Connard. Je suis offensé._ I can just leave if you want to spend your day doing this, I have a show tonight anyways.”

There’s a clean towel on the table and Erwin wipes his hands with it. The oil is stubborn, but he works at it with enough force to rub his skin raw. Rivaille clicks his tongue as he watches him.

“That won’t help. You are _still_ filthy.”

Rivaille sets down the gun and steps silently between Erwin’s still open legs. He puts a hand flat on Erwin’s chest and shoves him back against the chair. His expression is unreadable as always, but Erwin is trying to smile at him behaving like this. He’d spent enough time with him to know when Rivaille wanted sex. There was something in the glint of his eye, or the calculation of his movements that indicated it.

And now, he could sense that and he cannot stop smiling at it for the life of him.

“Go take a bath. I won’t deal with you again until you do.”

Erwin keeps his hold tight on Rivaille’s wrist, forcing him to stay in place. Rivaille tugs, but is too weak to escape the strength and expanse of his grasp. He scowls and scoffs. “Erwin what are you doing?”

“The meeting is within the next hour.“

“Which is exactly why you should bathe.”

He holds on tightly and pulls him closer. “Only a short while until god knows when you’ll be back.” Rivaille allows himself to be dragged forward again and into Erwin’s space. He stands upright between his thighs and looks down at Erwin’s face with a scowl.

It was true; after all, that Rivaille would come and go at his own leisure. Almost like a cat prone to the outdoors. The owner relying on loyalty alone for the creature to return to his feet to be pet and fed.

“You’re still disgusting.”

Erwin rolls his eyes, “Only a kiss.” He yanks him down less than gentle and forces Rivaille to surge his body forward. His free hand comes to the back of Rivaille’s hair; he grips it, and leans up to kiss his lips. Their mouths melt into one another’s and Rivaille makes a soft noise deep in his chest. Erwin takes the opportunity to closes his teeth down on Rivaille’s thin lower lip and pull. This time the sound comes from more than just his chest, and it’s high pitched, impatient.

“Erwin…” he mumbles, and then pulls away. Their mouths still brush over one another’s. “I meant what I said.”

He bathes quickly, but pays attention to the blood on his nails. It was right to at least get the lipstick off his neck, since his comrades would no doubt ask questions (Hange most of any of them). He didn’t expect Rivaille to stay, but he wasn’t positive where he’d go either. In fact, he was rarely privy to the knowledge of where Rivaille went when he wasn’t at the Ailes or spending time with Erwin.

When he comes back into the main room, Rivaille is standing with his back to him, looking down at his desk in the corner. There he’d left his maps for the mission laid out, the pairs and the names of the families they would be responsible. As well as the names of the families they’d already saved.

As of now they’d successfully lead 352 souls out from the occupied territory. Tomorrow would make it 403. Nearly half of the individuals were under nineteen years old.

Rivaille is humming softly, and Erwin is silent on the floorboards out of habit. He stands in the entrance to the main room to simply listen to Rivaille sing softly under his breath. It’s a song he's learned to recognize, a song of his own creation. It hadn’t been the first time he’d heard him crooning lyrics unfamiliar to anyone but, surely, the two of them.

"I like that tune."

He doesn't expect Rivaille to start, but he jumps and grips his chest. He spins around, glaring. "Don't you spy on me, _soldat_. I nearly shit myself." A heaving breath leaves him and he looks back to the maps. His shoulders are tense as he works on getting his shirt buttoned back up, the trousers on his hips are already secured and the braces are snug on his shoulders.

Erwin walks up behind him. He himself has fresh clothes on. Dark brown trousers and a spring green shirt Rivaille had kept the promise of bringing to him. The distance between them is only a few centimeters when Rivaille glances back. Erwin wraps his arms around his middle, kisses him on the neck just under his ear where he know he likes.

“I'm sorry." His ministrations are sweet and his voice is sincere, but he's hiding a smile. "Are you interested in where we’re going?” Erwin asks.

Rivaille sighs and leans his head away, so Erwin can better access to his throat. “Am I not allowed to be curious?”

“I suppose not.” _Not after Petra and Isabel_.

“Mm,” Rivaille pulls away, shimmies out from Erwin’s grip and goes for his boots. “I’ll be back this evening. After I perform. Perhaps you’ll stay clean.”

He doesn’t kiss Erwin when he goes.

***

The meeting is rather short, and he finds himself entirely in need of a drink by the time it’s over. The Ailes is the obvious choice, but the heat deters both him and Mike from making an appearance there any time before the sun sets.

Instead they choose a simple tavern near the river. The alcohol is poorly made and the staff are unfriendly, but the access to a basement portion grants them some reprieve from the heat. Albeit minimal. The company of his comrades makes up for the discomfort.

By the time the sun has fully set Erwin has stomached half a bottle of wine and little else. His tolerance is still, fortunately, high enough that he’s not staggering the streets with Mike’s help. Though it is his idea that Mike walk him home. As Mike, knowing that he must meet Nana at her flat in Montmarte after the show, decides against having much more than a glass.

“Nana had a new set of identification papers made,” Mike says unceremoniously as they make their way back to Erwin’s flat.

“Why would she?”

“Fear. She has good reason.”

Erwin quirks an eyebrow and Mike shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Erwin. I am sworn to secrecy on her behalf.”

“That’s alright. I understand why she would. I wouldn’t blame either of you for running, if it came to it.”

The taller man focuses his gaze steadily on Erwin, “You know neither of us would leave.”

“I know. I thought I’d offer.” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, thick with dried sweat. “There’s a great deal o-“

Mike knocks him by his chest so suddenly into the wall beside them that he can’t breathe for a full ten seconds. He hits hard enough, that it strangles him; fortunate, as Mike is deliberately silent and colored with a stunned worry.

He grabs Erwin by the arm, nods for him to follow, and they together dip down an alleyway only a few steps to their right. A quick glance behind them answers Erwin’s question almost immediately. Three men are running after them at full speed.

“Faster, Erwin,” he hisses, and they both pick up into a sprint. But the alleyway is quickly approaching its end back onto the main street. To run about like this, pursued, would only draw attention to them by the soldiers making their rounds.

“No.” Erwin stops. He digs his heels into the ground and pulls the small knife from his jacket. “Do not run.”

“There’s three of them,” Mike murmurs. The glint of his knife reflects off of Erwin’s own. The observation is Mike’s way of commenting that they’re outnumbered.

As they approach Erwin can see the color of their uniforms, the guns in their hands.

“Shit.”

Mike settles himself into a fighting stance, “Carlingue.”

Erwin doesn’t waste a moment allowing the men to take up the position to fire the guns he carries. He knows what he has to do, and the path is clear. Disarm the men, ensure that no rounds are fired, and keep their location from being broadcasted.

“ _D_ _éconsigner_ , Smith!”

 _They know me_.

He turns to Mike and nods, and all at once they charge. Both of them are tall enough to take the three men by height alone and surprise is in their favor when Mike manages to take two to the ground at ones. Erwin hits the third, the broadest of the group, and they land so hard on the cobblestone that Erwin can hear the man’s head crack against the rock. He spits a curse out at Erwin and tries to get his gun free.

Before he can, Erwin plunges the knife straight down into his throat, stifling his screams and shouts. The blood chokes him and the sounds are horrific as he drowns from the inside out on his own fluids. Erwin pulls the gun away from his limp hands, keeps his eyes steady on the other man’s as he fades. The butt of the gun slams hard against the street and Erwin empties the round with the tinkling sound of shells scattering around their bodies.

He watches the light snuff out like a candle, until the man is motionless and staring straight back at Erwin with nothing behind his gaze. He reaches out, going to shut the lids, but is knocked so hard in the cheek with the bottom of a shoe that he’s sent sailing onto the ground.

The impact combining with the kick is enough to dampen his vision beyond function and he struggles to get back to his feet while his ears move past the point of ringing into screeching and then into dull silence. The man who struck him is over him in seconds and he hauls him by his collar to his knees so he can land a strike on the corner of his mouth with the butt of his gun. Erwin manages to dodge it, mostly, but it connects enough for his skin to tear about his lip.

It the haze of injury it dawns on him why he’s not been shot yet. They’re trying to incapacitate him, not kill him.

He can see the shape of Mike struggling with the other man. His gun has been discarded, and he watches as Mike stabs over, and over, and over in the man’s side with his knife. Erwin reaches out for his own knife, and manages to get a grasp on it before he’s knocked in the face again by the back of the man's hand.

“ _Rester en bas_!”

The French slips in one ear and out the other again. Erwin sways, searching for his presence of mind, the balance of his body, for several moments before finding it. He can feel bloody hands in his hair, the other man’s, as he holds Erwin still. The knife has fallen from his grip again to rest by his knee. Mike is still fighting, and everything is silent. Or so far as Erwin can hear.

He ignores the painful rip at his scalp when he swings out, suddenly, with the heel of his palm into the soldier’s genitals. He hits hard, enough to make the soldier dry heavy and gag, stumble back and trip over his comrade’s fallen body. Erwin still feels like he can’t find the core of himself, but he forces his body into action. Fingers clasp the knife. He aims for the throat.

“Erwin!” Mike calls.

The knife is dug into the soldier’s open mouth, and it startles Erwin to see him choking around the blade. He reflexively pulls it away, staring at the way his mouth bubbles up with blood, form and face doubling over on itself as his vision struggles to find focus. Everything is red, everything is hot and fury-filled past the point of comfortability. He's horrified, to have stabbed the man in such an inhumane way. But at the same time, he feels satisfaction in being the one to come out from the fight victorious and almost feels validation in the man's suffering. He hurt people, he hurt innocent people, and he hurt Erwin and would have captured him and hurt him more until he got to the people Erwin cared for.

Mike’s holding him up immediately, pulling him to his feet and slinging an arm around his shoulder. By the time he’s upright the soldier’s eyes are closed, soul long gone, and Erwin feels hollow for not having seen it come to pass.

“Erwin? Look at me. Can you walk?”

He nods, finding himself after a moment of standing straight. “Yes. Yes, I’m alright.” His fingers touch his lip and they slide through the pool of blood that gathers there. Mike watches him, looking unconvinced.

 “I can take care of myself, Mike. Do you have money? Go make certain that Nana…” He runs his hand through his hair. “She’ll be walking home won’t she? Alone?”

Mike blinks, eyes wider than normal. “I watched you get hit. You need to have somebody walk you home.”

“Call a cab for yourself. That’s an order, Mike. Go see she’s safe. Hange too if she’s there. Let them know what happened. This isn't just a hunch anymore and this isn't just about me being recognized. They'll be coming for them, too.”

He puts a hand on Mike’s shoulder before they part. Mike jogs to the street and Erwin forces himself to walk upright, despite the throbbing he feels all over himself.

His door is unlocked, when he arrives at home.

 “Rivaille?”

The lights are on, and Rivaille emerges from the kitchen with a glass in hand. Immediately, the state of Erwin is revealed to him by the way Rivaille takes him in. The color drains from his face, and all at once he's being pulled into the chair at the table. 

“What the hell did you do, Erwin?” Rivaille hisses. 

“We were attacked in the street.”

Rivaille immediately moves away. “Don’t move.” His voice is cold, brittle and sharp. He walks away, muttering,“Tch, as if you could anyway.”

When he returns has two bowls, one empty and one full of water. There are cloths under his arms and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. Erwin has obediently stay still in his absence, and watches him as he moves about him to clean his face with a wet cloth.

“These cuts aren’t so deep. You should hope you don’t need stitching.”

“Rivaille,” he starts again. “There were three of them. Carlingue.”

Flint colored eyes pierce into him as a wet cloth is pressed into his head. He sops up the blood and then wrings out the towel in the empty bowl. “Take off your shirt.” He’s drawn away from Erwin, the same way he’d been in all those other instances before. Emotions buried so deep within him that Erwin would sooner grate his fingers bloody than excavate whatever Rivaille was thinking.

The task to remove his shirt is difficult, but he gets it off and tosses it to the ground. It was new and now it was stained all over with blood. Rivaille watches him, eyes slightly narrower than they usually are. His hands grip the towel like a vice.

“Rivaille, what’s wrong?”

The water on the towel is cool, and it feels incredible on his sweaty skin. “This is disgusting,” he comments, before wringing out the towel again. “Why the hell did you do this?”

He’s standing between Erwin’s thighs, mirroring the action from the morning in a strange way. There’s a gentleness to his movements, but now Erwin is coming to understand the silence is anger, not worry.

“It’s not as if I chose this.”

“Didn’t you? You could have gotten yourself killed. How did you get this?” He slides the cloth over his lip.

“Butt of a gun.” Erwin's voice has managed to go cold, too, without him even realizing.

“There's a lump on your head. You look like hell. Might as well be dead. You could have been.”

“I thought you said you weren’t worried about me?" Erwin's eyes have narrowed, and he takes in Rivaille's cold demeanor like a stinging thorn in his side.

Rivaille slams the cloth down into the dirty water and it sends red tinged liquid splattering across the table. “Of course I worry you damned idiot!” Erwin’s eyes go wide, surprised by the shout.

“Rivaille…”

“Shut up.”

He grabs Erwin by the chin and kisses him hard. Their teeth clack together and Erwin groans at the pain of his lip trapped against the sharp edges when they hit. There’s still blood, and Rivaille doesn’t seem to mind. Erwin can taste metal on his tongue when Rivaille shoves his inside to lick at the backs of Erwin’s teeth. His hands feel out for Rivaille’s hips and he seats him forcefully into his lap.

“Fuck you.” Rivaille grits against his mouth, his hands move quickly at his pants. “I shouldn’t give a shit whether you live or die.”

Erwin moans at the hand shoved down into his pants. He’s still soft, but the urgency in the way Rivaille gropes at him makes it impossible not to harden against his palm. He pulls at Rivaille’s clothes and doesn’t care to hear the buttons and seams strain and pop.  There’s only a soft gasp in response when Erwin pulls that shirt to expose his bare chest. Finger nails claw at the skin they find, his grips sink into Rivaille’s flesh as he pulls him in closer than Rivaille can seem to bear.

He finds his way to Rivaille’s cock and together they stroke one another; uneven and rough, not caring much about to protesting friction of skin on skin. Rivaille pants against his mouth, and ignores the wound when he kisses and licks. His small hand is straining to fit Erwin inside of it, and the other holds onto his hair for purchase. Meanwhile Erwin busies himself exploring the expanse of Rivaille’s cock by pressing at the veins and sensitive places, digging his thumb at the underside.

“Fuck me,” he moans into Erwin’s mouth. “Fuck me, Erwin.” The struggle he makes in Erwin’s arms is fruitless, and Erwin isn’t sure if he’s attempting to get free or reveling in his inability to even if he tried. He’s held firmly in place, and his weight is nothing against the slow buck of Erwin’s hips up into his hand.

They had sex, and while Erwin has a vague idea of how it ought to be, he hasn’t considered sodomy in any serious, sober state of mind. But now he things of that tight – impossibly tight – grip Rivaille has on his hand and imagines it in a different sense. Rivaille is so small, after all.

“Yes,” Erwin breathes against his lips. He leans down and bites down so hard on Rivaille’s neck it’s bound to leave a mark. His mouth is wet when it presses to Rivaille’s ear; no doubt blood has smeared against it. “I want to feel you. I want to be inside of you.”

Rivaille groans, grinds up into the circle of his fingers around his cock. “I want you to fill me and make me cry out.”

Erwin’s eyes flick up, and he can see Rivaille, flushed and panting. His eyes are soft and his mouth is pliant and sheened over with saliva.

“Get undressed, Erwin.” He says suddenly. “Let me go.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, Erwin trusts Rivaille to guide him in this. The smaller man disappears into the bathroom while Erwin stands up. His knees are shaking and as he finishes undressing himself precome threatens to leak to the floor.

Rivaille returns with one of the bath oils from beside the tub. He’s nude now and his hands are free from the blood that stained them before. His eyes stay on Erwin’s as he walks to the bed, steps light on the floorboard and panting stopped entirely.

His back goes to Erwin and he lets himself fall across the mattress from the torso up, feet still on the floor. Of course this isn’t the first time Erwin’s seen that part of him, the soft skin of his ass and the spread to reveal between it. Only now it appears depraved, as beautiful of a sight it is, and his heart hammers so violently that it makes his chest thud.

He washes his hand with a clean towel, making sure the blood is free of his skin. Rivaille glances back over his shoulder and the oil shines on his fingers. With ease and practice he slides his index finger into himself all the way to the last knuckle. Then he pulls out, slow, and keens at the sensation both verbally and physically.

Erwin is dumbstruck, and he’s frozen in place as he watches Rivaille bury his finger inside himself, reveal it again, and then slide it back into place. The action repeats over and over, until he can see the subtle twitch in Rivaille’s thighs, the spasm on his kneecaps beneath the skin.

A second finger is added and Rivaille’s voice raises an octave. He moves faster, and each thrust becomes more purposeful. His narrow hips rock against the bed, and each small movement gathers into a louder moan. Until, finally he looks back at Erwin, and buries a third finger inside.

“Your cock is so big. I might have to do four.”

Erwin feels himself come back to his mind at the filth that Rivaille starts to speak. He glances down at himself, where his straining cockhead is flushed a deep shade of red, precome dribbling and dripping down to land at is feet. He can’t believe how hard it is, how it manages to ache without release.

He reaches down, and hisses when his palm makes contact with the hyper-sensitized skin. “Fuck,” he murmurs. The thought of trying to fit himself inside of Rivaille makes him twitch in his own palm. He thinks for a moment of the night he’d watched that man move inside of Rivaille so roughly that he was slammed against the mirror.

“Take your hands away. Give me the oil.”

Rivaille cocks an eyebrow, but obeys. His hand is shaking slightly when he lifts the bottle to Erwin. He stands over the smaller man, and instinct spurs him onward. The oil slathers his fingers and he pushes two inside of him, as two surely amounted to three of Rivaille’s fingers.

And he groans at the heat and tightness of him. It’s different than it feels inside a woman, and Rivaille moans wantonly as his muscles tighten around Erwin’s fingers.

“Another,” he breathes. Erwin obliges, pushing his ring finger inside with the others.

This is by far the most repulsive, horrible act he’s ever done. And he’s so hard that he can help but rock his hips into the air in front of him. His fingers move slowly, and he revels in the way Rivaille tightens around him when he draws them out. His hands are fisted in the sheets of Erwin’s bed and he can see his profile as it contorts with the pleasure he feels. He’s shocked it feels so good to him, how he even starts to whisper out please for Erwin to go faster.

“Will it hurt you to put myself inside of you?” Erwin says, voice uneven and gristly.

“No. Are you fucking joking?” Rivaille accent is thickening. “Fuck me. Fuck me right now you asshole.”

Erwin’s breath rattles in him when the oil is distributed over his length. Rivaille takes care of him, turning around to lie on his back to face Erwin. And Erwin is glad for it, because he feels with unparalleled need, the desire to watch Rivaille’s face when he fucks him.

Rivaille guides him to his entrance, and with great care Erwin pushes inside. He won’t take his eyes from Rivaille’s and he tightens his jaw when Rivaille bites back a sob at the intrusion. The worry on his face must show, cause all at once Rivaille is pulling him by the hips, holding in almost growl deep in his chest as he speaks.

“Don’t treat me like I’m breakable. Fuck me.”

“Rivaille,” Erwin breathes out, half admonishment and half pleasure.

“You bastard,” he groans. “Just do as  I say.”

Erwin braces on hand above Rivaille’s head, the other on his hip, and he buries himself with one fluid motion. Rivaille cries out, and his hands fly out to Erwin’s chest as if he means to push him away. Instead, his nails dig in and rake downward until angry stings erupt in lines down Erwin’s torso.

He hisses and draws out, pushing back in to make Rivaille shout again.

He’s hot around him, almost blindingly hot, and so unbelievably tight that Erwin is panting out and trying to keep from finishing already. He tries to pick up a rhythm, but every tiny motion has Rivaille shifting and curling away. His eyes are shut and his mouth is open, and Erwin can do little else but watch as every miniscule change in the position of his body send Rivaille tumbling into a seemingly uncontrolled reaction.

It’s Rivaille, who sets the pace. He digs his heels into the frame that holds up the mattress and lets his hips lifts from the bed. Erwin holds him up, and lets him slam his hips down with increasing intensity and speed. Until it’s Erwin that’s keening and moaning.

“Rivaille,” he breathes, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling for something, anything, to stave off the orgasm that threatens deep inside of him.

Rivaille merely claws at him again, bites his fingernails into the skin of Erwin’s ass and guides him in even deeper. It feels nothing like a woman, and it feels like everything he’s been missing.

“Touch my cock,” Rivaille demands through a string of curses in French that Erwin can’t hope to follow.

Erwin does, gripping it with one hand and stroking him with a lack of tenderness that shows how desperately he wanted him to come first. Of course, Rivaille was familiar with this, and no doubt more capable than Erwin in delaying his orgasm.

“I don’t want to come yet,” Erwin protests aloud. He can feel his hips moving of their own volition now, and with a force that sends the sounds of skin hitting through the room. Each thrusts meets Rivaille’s and hits him so deep that he can see tears glistening in Rivaille’s eyes.

“No.” Rivaille growls. “Come. Damn you. Come inside of me. Let me feel you”

Erwin needs no more invitation than that. He finishes with a shout, the force of the orgasm so almost-painful that it sends him falling down onto Rivaille and covering him. He kisses him desperately, trying unsuccessfully to purse his lips for the kisses around the moans. His hands still hold his hips, and he fucks into him so relentlessly that even Rivaille is incapable of closing his mouth.

When he finishes and gains control again, he realizes that there’s come against his chest. Somewhere, in the blindness of the orgasm, Rivaille had finished, too. And now he lay, eyes closed and panting with Erwin hovering over him with the little strength he had left.

Erwin feels the undeniable need to kiss him, so he does, so gentle that Rivaille’s lips must be covered in kisses bit by bit. He likes the way Rivaille lets him, and likes it even more when shaking, tired hands come to pet his hair.

“We both need to clean off,” he feels, more than he hears, mumbled against his lips.

“Just another moment,” Erwin says, and he leans back. Rivaille opens his eyes and Erwin drinks him in. The look down upon each other in the lamplight and Erwin kisses him once more. His fingers caress his cheeks and his forehead rests upon Rivaille’s. When he pulls back again, Rivaille’s eyes are closed and his breath is even.

He’s not certain if he is asleep or if he is not. But he takes joy in carrying Rivaille to the bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Déconsigner means "stand down"  
> -Rester en bas means "stay down"  
> -Blessures means wounds


	12. L'ennemi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erwin watches with every part of his body demanding he fight, but he knows Hange is right. What could he do except die?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is, what this was all leading to. I'm not editing again until later since I want to (again) get this out asap. I would love to hear what you all think so comments and messages on tumblr are welcome times ten. Did you see it coming? (honestly I didn't I'm just making this up as I go).
> 
> ***violence in this chapter***

**Juillet 1942**

“You snore,” he says. “Did you know that?”

It’s a strange occurrence for Rivaille to be awake before Erwin. He remains nestled at his chest, hair tucked under Erwin’s chin, when Erwin finally wakes at first light. The sun is barely making its first appearances in the flat and Rivaille seems to be wide awake with no traces of sleep on his voice.

“Do I?” Erwin says as he stretches.

“Yes.” Rivaille moves with the arch of his body. “Only when you’re on your back.”

“Mm, I see.” He wraps his arm tighter around Rivaille and smells his hair. All over, he smells like the bath oils they’ve been using for sex. “You sleep with your mouth open.”

Nonchalantly Rivaille trails his fingers through the dusting of blond hair at Erwin’s navel. It makes him shiver. “Perhaps I wanted you to slip something inside.”

Erwin chuckles and no doubt Rivaille can feel the rumble on his cheek. “Oh?”

Rivaille slides his hand lower, finding Erwin soft and resting against his thigh. His thin fingers trace the length of him, gaining his attention with a soft gasp.

“Perhaps.”

His hips rolls slow in the loose grip Rivaille takes on him. “Rivaille I’m still half asleep.”

A hot, wet mouth connects with his pulse through the skin of his throat. He groans soft and blood rushes to his cock so quickly he has to laugh again. His fingers curl into Rivaille’s hair and he tugs, forcing the smaller man’s chin upward so he can kiss his mouth open and slow.

His new flat is smaller than the last, but cleaner. He’d decided it would be best if he moved, and so far he and Rivaille had christened it by making love on every surface they could. Last night it had been Rivaille on the countertop, legs around Erwin’s waist. He’s happy to find that Rivaille is still somewhat loose from the fuck only a few hours prior.

He keeps teasing at his entrance until Rivaille is shaking and hardly able to keep his hand straight on Erwin.

“I thought you said you were tired,” Rivaille snarks.

Erwin smiles against his mouth, “That’s why you’ll ride me.”

Rivaille rolls his body to straddle Erwin. He sits up straight, grinding down onto Erwin’s cock teasingly. “Who says?”

Erwin takes his hips in hand, forces him downward with a low moan. “I do.” His eyes slip closed and it feels wonderful to have them shut.

The knock on the door scares them both so thoroughly that they scramble from the bed as if sleep hadn’t even been part of the discussion. Erwin knows there’ll be no way to explain Rivaille being in his flat and the suggestion for Rivaille to hide seems like the best course of action whether or not the guest is somebody Erwin knows. Of course Rivaille is appalled by the idea and stares at Erwin with anger that scorches him.

“Erwin?”

It’s Nana’s voice.

“Erwin wake up. Something terrible has happened.”

Rivaille is the one to answer the door. Both he and Rivaille are in boxer shorts and sleep shirts. Nana ignores Rivaille presence entirely for the sake of reaching Erwin. He feels like he might vomit, as if the discovery that Rivaille had been sleeping here would challenge whatever the news was Nana had to share.

“They’ve taken thousands.”

It didn’t.

It was the second day of rounding up the Jews from the districts. The extractions would begin within the hour.

Never before had the Nazis taken children. There had always been the fear, of course, that one day the day would come, but now it had arrived with a repulsive reality that no one was capable of facing. Erwin listens to Nana tell him every detail. Of how they were rounded up from their homes and transported to the Velodrome D’Hiver, a bicycle racing stadium built at the turn of the century for indoor races during the winter. Now it served as a prison.

“Where’s Hange and Mike?” he asks.

“Mike’s retrieving guns for the store room. Hange is going for some of the others nearby her. I knew had to go straight to you before anyone else.”

Erwin moves to get dressed. His hands are steady as he buttons his shirt. “Go to the others immediately. We’ll meet at Mike’s, he’s the closest to the Vel’ D’Hiv.”

Rivaille finally moves from his statuesque stance by the door. He steps towards Erwin, scowling, “Surely you don’t mean to interfere.”

“Of course, we are,” Nana pipes up, answering before Erwin has a chance. He looks at her, then looks down at Rivaille as he slips his legs into his trousers. His voice comes out more sullen than he intends.

“The families we’ve been in contact with are those who are at highest risk of being deported. There’s no doubt they’ve been the ones interred. I promised I’d protect them.” He looks to Nana as he pulls his braces over his shoulders, “Send the Rico’s younger set off to the homes of the families we were intending to move in the next two missions. See to it that they’re safe. If they’ve been capture we need to record that they’re missing, and those who remain should be brought to the press to Pixis until we are able to see them to the south.”

Rivaille grabs his arm, nails digging into the fabric and skin below it, “And what exactly do you intend to do, hm? It…” He looks away with a curl of his lip and then back to Erwin’s eyes. “An operation that large would involve an army. You’re going to be arrested or worse. That’s all that will come of this.”

“Then so be it,” he says, putting a hand on Rivaille’s wrist and forcing him to release the grip. “But we will save who we can by whatever means necessary before we meet that fate.”

It’s strange to see the effort in Rivaille; his lip is quivering and he bites it to keep it still. Though it’s not as if he’s going to cry. It seems that it’s frustration that rattles him, anger perhaps. Fear.

“Nanaba. Give us a moment,” Rivaille commands.

She’s watching them with confusion, her thin unmade brows furrow. Erwin notices now how her hair is still disheveled from sleep.

“Nana I’ll meet you down at Mike’s get the information out.” Erwin’s voice seems to resonate with her. She nods, and excuses herself from the flat.

Immediately, Rivaille gets a grip on Erwin’s shirt.

“Do. Not. Go.” he says, and it’s threatening.

Erwin shakes his head and then leans down. He kisses Rivaille before he has the chance to pull back or speak again. The action itself is dramatic, romantic, over-done like the American films tend to be.

And Rivaille doesn’t kiss back at first, but when he does Erwin feels his heartbeat pause. Rivaille shows him finally, the fear that he feels, in the way that he presses his lips into Erwin’s with a force that makes it hard for Erwin to take a breath. He pulls at him, holds his cheeks, and hair, and arms, and sides, and hips. He kisses him over, and over, and over.

For all the words he doesn’t say and all the emotions he doesn’t show. Erwin feels like he knows what he means by it. And despite all odds and pauses, he feels, at the core of himself, quite the same.

“Don’t die.”

It’s the last thing Rivaille says to him.

The Vel D’Hiv is a structure of glass and steel opulence, a testament of the modern age. It’s towers that bookend the front entrance are vaguely reminiscent of the Hagia Sofia, middle eastern in design and quite a pearl in the necklace of Parisian architecture.

Now they stand like wicked, imposing things. Like the towers of a prison, and those inside are held beyond justice.

Erwin feels steady himself, despite the way his stomach aches with anxiousness. Only thirteen people were found safely in their homes by his men. The majority, the _vast_ majority were held beyond those great walls ahead.

“How many?” whispers the boy at his side. He’s the blonde one, the one he’d seen taking Farlan’s place at the ticket booth. Erwin had never noticed before how poor his French was.

“We have only a weak estimate.”

The boy turns back to whoever it was to supply him with the information. “That can hold 20,000 persons. Do...will they fill it all?”

Erwin gives the command as the sun sinks down behind the buildings around them. The side entrance was where they were bringing in new Jewish prisoners, and as soon as a new bus would arrive they would blend in as best they could with the entering captives. They - Nana, Mike, Hange, Oluo, Eld, and Gunther - were willing to follow Erwin’s plan with the understanding that it was flawed. Despite the disguises, despite the foresight. They knew the risk.

The younger of Erwin’s men would remain outside to greet the escapees, and then they would be led to the presses underground with the rest of the people they’d already managed to save.

Before he makes the call he watches Nana and Mike speaking low in the alleyway. They kiss once and Mike presses his nose into her hair, closing his eyes an standing still as she stroked up and down his forearms.

He thinks of Rivaille.

“We go now,” he says, as the buses arrive in the dark. The lamp lights blaze on the streets, harsh and bright against the dim glass of the Vel’ D’Hiv.

 They enter behind the bus, utilize the chaos of the crowd being hearded through the wide doors. The soldiers treat them like cattle, prodding at them with the tips of their guns and coldly shoving them into line as they enter the building. Erwin has his gun concealed, and he cannot see his men with his eyes purposefully downcast. The people he walks beside do much the same, but there eyes are wider, emptier. Behind him a child is sniffling.

He can hear the soldiers giving their commands to one another. Except, they don’t speak German. They are French. They are policemen.

“Take them to processing.”

“These are the last for the night.”

There inside of the Velodrome is something out of fiction. It reeks of urine, and people scatter across the track, children run down the slopes, families make shelter in the stands. Erwin looks around, taking in the sight, and realizes, with the utmost finality, that this was a suicide mission.

He turns to Hange, catching her eye. She stares back, hollowed. All of his men, with dark shells of their irises in place of the blue, green, and browns, stare back to him with the same expression. He’s certain, that despite his efforts, he appears the same.

They manage to slip away one by one; Erwin stands by Hange, taking her hand under the pretense of them being husband and wife. She looks away, buries her cheek into his chest and takes up the role well. The others follow them to a place at the stair case leading to some of the stands.

“How are we supposed to find anyone in here?” asks Oluo under his breath.

Nana is still staring ahead blankly, “We can branch out to ask families for their children.”

Erwin nods, “The children first. Stay in pairs.”

There had to be thousands of them. Some cry at their mother’s breast, some run and play as if it is a schoolyard.

They agree to take sections. Their costumes blend well, and Erwin’s clasp on Hange’s hand remain firm. The two stay back, waiting for the others to start their ascent up the stairs. Hange looks at him, “We should have come as guards, Erwin.” Her humor is dark, and weak on her tongue.

He makes an effort, managing a smile. “Hindsight…”

Hindsight.

The sound of the struggle on the steel staircase above them is deafening. The thunderous clatter of boots. The shouts of protest. The sound of batons beating flesh and the shouts that follow.

“No!” It’s Nana’s voice, undeniably.

Erwin goes to move but Hange shoves him back with her full weight. They fall hard against the floor, without him expecting it to brace himself, and the two are concealed behind crates at their right. Hange pulls him and he follows. As he goes to protest, she slams her hand over his mouth. Above he hears the words in harsh French:

“Which of them are they?”

“Does it matter?”

The tips of shoes scrape across metal and Erwin looks around the crate to see them carried out like game hunted and captured and set for display. It’s all of them. He tries to move again, but Hange digs her nails into his forearm. She stares, eyes dark, and hisses, “Stay.”

There are twenty-eight men, dressed in the uniforms of the Carlingue. They have handcuffs secured tightly at the wrists of Erwin’s comrades, and hold them by their shoulders to shove them prostrate on the dirty cement.

Two of the men are officers; it’s clear by their dress. One of them speaks.

“I know these two,” he says. His index fingers outstretch on both hands, and point to Nana and Mike. Nana’s eyes are cold, staring, but her breath heaves in her chest. Mike has blood dripping from his bottom lip.

“Hannah Bauer. Zacharie Saint Michel. The stars are fitting, no?”

Erwin shakes his head in disbelief. How could he have known? How could he have known they were Jews? That they were under assumed names? Names, Erwin thinks about, as he has never even heard them before.

“The other three aren’t,” he flashes his hand through the air. His back is to Erwin, but he’s certain he can see the shake of his shoulders with laughter. “Useless though. Kill them.”

He tries to move again, but before he can flinch the shot rings out. Oluo, Gunther, and Eld don’t make a sound, except for when their bodies hit the floor with a nauseating thud. Nana looks at them in horror, and her tears start to flow.

“You bastards! You fucking bastards! God damn you!”

The second officer slaps her across the face and Mike springs back to himself. He struggles, knocking his head back into the soldier’s stomach who holds him down. The soldier struggles, and in the chaos Nana starts to slip free. Erwin watches helplessly, as they’re subdued all at once.

“Take them into custody, then throw them along with the rest,” The first officer commands.

Erwin watches with every part of his body demanding he fight, but he knows Hange is right. What could he do except die? They haul them away, Nana crying and watching Mike, and Mike staring back with tears in his own eyes. He doesn’t care if he gets killed, he doesn’t care what the sacrifice is. He is a coward, for staying here hidden. This is his fault. This is on his hands.

The two officers remain back, talking in hushed voices. Their backs still remain to Erwin and Hange, but Erwin can see they are both dark haired. The first officer is taller, stockier. The second is certainly older and fatter.

“Loutrel, he’s not here,” says the second officer.

“That’s not my fault, Henri. Don’t look at me that way, I’m very sensitive.”

He’d never seen them in person before. Pierre Loutrel and Henri Lafont.

“It’s not like him to make the others do his dirty work, you know.”

Pierre shifts on his feet, “Don’t tell me about these people, Henri. I know them far better than you.”

“Do you? Is that why you didn’t know they would be here today?”

“Oh hush, we caught half his gang. I’d count this as a victory on our part.”

Henri turns his head, and Erwin can see his profile as he scowls. “What good is your little pet if he can’t tell us when they plan to strike?”

Pierre laughs, “Don’t tell me you think of them as a threat _now_? They were hardly before, something to please the brass, if not our own little game, eh, Henri?” He nudges the other man, laughing again. “Rivaille does his best for us, truly.”

Erwin can’t breathe.

The two men seem to move in slow motion, the words are on Pierre’s lips like molasses, like a fever dream. “He told me he doesn’t get much out of him even when he asks. It’s not like this was something he could have overheard. I’m certain it was quite spontaneous. I’ll speak with him.”

“You better do, Pierre.” Henri grabs his shoulder. “Eventually that little weasel will lose his worth to me.”

Pierre shoves his hand away, “But not to me. And if you threaten him again I’ll put a bullet it you head.” His voice turns to ice, even the commotion inside seems to fall inferior to his words. “He’s mine and he’s done so much for our cause, how dare you say he has no worth?”

“He’ll lose his worth when he changes sides. Like Farlan.”

Pierre flinches, and then snarls. “I took care of Farlan and Rivaille is loyal to me. Our bond is something you can’t understand. Smith means nothing to him, he’s assured me and I believe him.” He starts to walk away. “You ought to believe that, too. Make another round, Lafont.”

He feels the air move away from him as if it’s disgusted to even fill his lungs. His head swims, his vision staggers into double. Rivaille.

It was a lie.

Rivaille had tricked him and fucked him and falsified his affection. Erwin was so easily tricked, such a damned easy target. He'd not only been sodomizing a man he'd been used by him. A man he might have even...

Hange grabs his chin.

“ _Erwin_!” She hisses, as if it’s the tenth time she’s said it. Her knife is in hand.

“I…” he looks to her, confused.

“Now is not the time.”

He nods, convincing himself as much as he agrees. “Yes. We need to…”

She lifts her skirt to her undergarments. “Fake an injury. If I cut just right and avoid the artery I can get enough blood from my inner thighs to make it look as if I’ve miscarried.” Her eyes are poisonous when she looks at him. “You’ll carry me out.”

He grabs her skirts, holds them up for her. “It’ll be best if you can’t speak. Pretend to have fainted.”

She laughs, unhinged. “I might just do that anyhow.”

They wait until she’s pale and the blood seeps through her navy blue skirt to stain it black. Blood runs down her leg, and Erwin allows it to get on his hands to make it more convincing. They wrap the wound, and Hange is barely conscious as the make their plans. His mind is on a single path as he lifts her into her arms, her glasses his breast pocket and her body limp in his hold.

“Please,” he asks the policeman at the door. “Please one of the guards said that you’d help her. She’s pregnant. I don’t know his name, but he said to come to you.”

Erwin shoots him in the back of the head in the car once they’re down one of the narrow streets outside the Vel’ D’Hiv. He rushes to the younger men he’d left outside, Hange in his arms, but awake.

“Commander?” a boy with dark brown hair and wide teal eyes takes him in as he approaches.

“Don’t take her to the hospital. Pixis is waiting at the presses.” He hands Hange off to them and she blinks away unconsciousness as she is set upright between the arms of the blonde boy and the brunet. They hold her and the tall black haired girl beside them steps forward from the remaining group.

“Commander what happened?”

Erwin stares at Hange, “We were compromised. Hange can explain. I’ll meet all of you there soon. Do not leave until I do, go straight there now do you understand?”

The brunet boy shouts out, “But where are you going, Commander?”

He leaves without another word.

* * *

 

Rivaille was never meant to fall in love.

It was foolish to feel as if he were in love at all, but the way he cannot stop dry heaving, cannot stop pacing, cannot stop fidgeting, tells him differently. He has never behaved like this. Not ever.

Perhaps it’s guilt. Perhaps it’s something more.

How did everything manage to go so wrong?

He refused to leave the flat, as he was almost certain his feet would carry him after Erwin to tell him the truth, to tell him to stay away. But that wouldn’t have done much good. He knew what would come of such a confession. His own death, most likely, one to come from the hands of either of the men he’d become entangled in. There was a chance he could take one route to confess, explain it all, how he’d came to be an informant. Erwin was familiar enough to him now to know that he’d only be seen by him as a something in need of saving.

Pierre had told him of the operation one night while they sat beside one another in bed. He sat and cleaned his guns; Rivaille shined his uniform boots for him with his legs dangling off the side. He was told to listen for any murmurings of a rescue mission.

Erwin was as good as dead. He felt a sting in his heart. The bastard wouldn’t have listened anyhow. The stupid, foolish, bastard.

He manages to fall asleep by the time the sun sets. The flat had been cleaned, the clothes organized, a dinner made for Erwin when he returned. With fruits and champagne; the gifts he’d brought the night before.

He’s woken by the sound of the door clicking into place, but he hears no foot steps, no lights are turned on. Immediately, he knows that something is not right.

Erwin’s hand is on his neck before he has a chance to move.

He blinks rapidly, taking in the face in the pitch, but it’s a hand he recognizes enough to imagine the face he can’t see. Reflex sends a knee flying into Erwin’s chest, knocking him back enough so Rivaille can get to his feet.

“What are you doing, _soldat_?” He asks, but he knows the answer deep down. Bile rises in his throat and its competition, that disgusting feeling, to the pain of bruises already forming on his neck.

As his eyes adjust to the dark he can see how Erwin’s face is contorted with something so violently sharp that he can scarcely believe it’s him. He is not _his_ Erwin, he is shattered and cold and predatory. He lunges again, and succeeds in knocking Rivaille into the wall with his neck in his hands. But he doesn’t squeeze, or block off the path of his air. Clearly he doesn’t mean to kill him straight away. Rivaille doesn’t struggle, he watches, and he waits for Erwin to do the talking.

“Did you want me dead?” Erwin snarls. “Was that your goal? Why not simply kill me in my bed? Why have Pierre do it for you?”

Rivaille refuses to give him the satisfaction of showing what rips him apart inside when the word Pierre is thrown into the air. “I never meant to kill you.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

There’s a knife in Erwin’s hand that Rivaille hadn’t seen before. It glints in the moonlight, like a beacon giving Rivaille the command to fight again. He pulls at Erwin’s hand, managing to make it hard for him to keep his hold. “If you’re going to kill me just do it.”

“Tell me why?”

Certainly he can’t tell the truth.

The answer comes to his tongue, as if it were a natural response. “I love him.”

“I ought to kill you. I ought to _kill you_.” Erwin is terrifying like this. It’s suddenly so clear how he manages to murder the way he does, how Rivaille has understood him to be. When Pierre had first told him about Erwin Smith the tales were of the bodies he’d piled up, how he killed silently and with tact. Rivaille never expected to be a corpse.

Perhaps he would kill him kindly.

“Then do it,” he spits at him. “Kill me you fucking coward.”

"Were you after me this whole time? From the moment we met?"

Rivaille knew everything; where he was truly from, what he'd done to escape.

"You were my mark. I knew you before you knew me."

Erwin tightens his hand. He glowers at him, tips his forehead forward so his eyes are inky black under his thick eyebrows. “I hope you know what you’ve done. Eld, Gunther, Oluo are dead because of you. Nana and Mike are being sent to a camp because of the information _you gave_.”

“I gave Pierre nothing! Where were you to protect them?!” He makes his move. It’s something in him that refused to fall like a rat in trap feebly struggling under his fate. He slams his elbow down against Erwin’s forearm. It doesn’t make a sound, and neither does Erwin, but it breaks his hold with ease.

He knows where Erwin keeps the gun, in his bedside, as he told him.

By the time he aims the gun back at Erwin’s face he can see how everything has slipped away from him, strips off his face and skin until he’s left something like a husk of himself. His eyes and face are plain, hands at his sides. That shining blond hair, those eyes like the sky, the handsome face he’s learned to map with his fingers.

His heart doesn’t just feel as if it’s broken; it’s as if it has been removed entirely.

What could he do?

“If you ever show your face again to me Rivaille I’ll kill you. Around any of us. But it will be me to kill you I guarantee that.”

There’s nothing left in Rivaille to hurt. The gun sinks back down in his hand as it falls limp at his side. He doesn’t need to read his expressionless face, understand the monotony of his voice, analyze the grip he has on his knife to know that Erwin means what he says.

He stares at him for a moment more.

What he gathers, is that this is mercy and he feels the insides of his hollow chest prickle and bite. He hates him. He hates that he’s been shown mercy. He feels weak.

He won’t show Erwin, he won’t let him see any part of the way he feels. He sets the gun back down on the bedside table and picks up his shoes by the door to put then on in the hall.

The tears sting his throat as he stares at the flaking wallpaper, the flaking paint, the number six on the door across from Erwin’s. He takes in the sweaty smell and what’s left of his own dignity as he pushes the tears away with force and detestation.

He feels nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Velodrome D'Hiver incident is an actual event in history. If you'd like more information you can look it up (I encourage it) or you're welcome to come to my tumblr to ask about it as I'd be happy to tell you more.
> 
> -l'ennemi means the enemy


	13. l'Amour et la Haine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well isn’t lovely to see you again, soldat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! And after last chapter with the second half being in Rivaille's POV, we move entirely into his POV for the rest of the story. You'll see why...he's got a lot to say.
> 
> Also, to close out Nana and Mike's story I posted a standalone called "Nine" which you can find here on my ao3
> 
> Comments, kudos, and messages on tumblr are (as always) welcome! Thanks for reading!

When Rivaille is born, he is born nameless. It was a set of circumstances rather unexpected for the firstborn son of an affluent father, yet it was his mother that made all the difference. She had been sent away, locked like a bird in a cage in an apartment far beyond anything she could afford independently. Her existence was a secret entirely, and more so when she discovered her pregnancy.

Rivaille was born seven strokes after midnight on Christmas day in the bed of that apartment; his mother had been prohibited from going to the hospital. His father was not present, but instead on holiday with his wife and family somewhere in the country.

There were two months of his life that he went unnamed due to his mother’s insistence that his father choose what he ought to be called. He was called boy, darling, baby, love, angel, but _cherie_ was the name preferred by his mother. However, he didn't own these names and they didn't identify him more than they identified every other baby boy in Paris.

In the end, he had been called Rivaille, a muddled diminutive of his grandfather’s name, Levi. His father refused to allow his last name to be given to his bastard son, which was not anything surprising, and was conveniently absent from his birth certificate. He was a weak thing after all, too small and born far too early to have any consequence or warrant any love from the father that brought him into the world.

His mother was the only person to regard him with any sort of affection. She was kept in that apartment with him, and in the time they had so much of, she taught him how to dance, sing, and play piano. Sometimes he would sing by the window, just because he loved it so much when the passersby would wave and clap at his pretty songs.

She taught him things without meaning to, like how one ought to kiss a man and how to be beautiful. Things he couldn't understand the meaning of until he was older and looking back on his childhood. His mother was a whore, but he loved her. Until he was twelve she was all he had and all that he knew. It was at then that she passed in her sleep from tuberculosis at age thirty-three.

**-Mai 1944-**

"This is unlikely to work. I don't like this at all."

“You’re telling me something I already know, Rivaille,” he says. His eyes sparkle; they turn a few shades lighter brown in the sun.

“I’m reminding you then.”

“You could have stayed behind.”

The Seine reflects sunlight in bright flashes, like twinkling stars in a light grey sky. He’s always hated the river, it was positively filthy and stank when it got too warm outside. As it did on this particular day. People line streets, as it’s still mild in temperature, and Rivaille finds himself enjoying the breeze.

He catches Pierre watching him, when he looks back to him. There’s a smile, on his familiar lips, and he winks at Rivaille. “You know I always want you by my side. We’ve always worked best as a partnership.”

Rivaille glances away, bored, “Then maybe you ought to listen to me more, fucker.”

It’s not as if he’d kept watch of them in the last two years - and it had been two years, by some strange wrinkle in time - but he knew them all well and he knew how they behaved.

“The tip was that he was planning assassination,” Pierre says. He’s out of uniform, which is a strange sight for Rivaille to catch him in daylight without shiny black leather boots and that ridiculous hat. Instead he’s chosen to don his familiar street clothes; starched collared shirt, pressed trousers, and a intricately designed pair of oxfords.

“And I’m telling you that I doubt it,” Rivaille pulls out a cigarette and passes his fingers through the grease that slicks his hair back before igniting the lighter.

“Why would you?”

“He doesn’t kill during the day if he can avoid it. A cafe is too public. He prefers to not make a sound.”

Pierre rolls his eyes and laughs, “I told you, I know all these things.”

Rivaille glares at him, letting the smoke billow out in a cloud around him, “Then why the fuck aren’t you listening to me? This is pointless. We’ll only scare them off if they have somebody following Stoltz and you show your face.”

“I have a plan.” He doesn’t consult Rivaille as he takes the cigarette from his fingers. His drag is sharp and deep.

“As always...do you care to share it with me?”

As he hands back the cigarette to Rivaille, he pats his chest pocket. There’s no question that he has a gun concealed within it. “Kill the officer he’s trying to kill. I have no doubt he has somebody watching Stoltz, all we have to do is send a message.”

The two make a turn down an alleyway, and seeing that they’re alone, Pierre leans to kiss the corner of his mouth. His hands have always been like a puppy's paws, too big for the rest of him, and one is clasped firmly on Rivaille’s shoulder.

“Trust me,” he says, almost cooing. “It's going to work.”

The plan is to walk straight into the cafe’s gated patio and send a bullet deep into the man’s forehead. Rivaille stands with his back pressed against him, holding his own pistol out threateningly at the screaming patrons and startled passersby. This almost feels like the old days, the robberies, and Pierre’s back is hot against his in a way that spurs on a nostalgic smirk to Rivaille’s lips.

“Shut up! All of you!” Pierre shouts. Rivaille can hear the smile he surely has as he speaks with command. “I have a message to give and you’re all being too loud. My intended won’t be able to hear it if you keep wailing.”

“You heard him. Shut your fucking mouths.” Rivaille feels calm, and so sure in all of this. This is what he’s good at, he’s accustomed to it.

“Now. I’m certain there are some individuals out amongst us who are part of the Resistance. Certainly somebody who knows one of them, yes?”

Rivaille looked back over his shoulder, still unable to give him more than just a sidelong glance, still he scowls. “Hurry up, Pierre.” In the distance the sound of a siren is turning from a whisper to a roar. Pierre seems to hear it, too, as he tips one ear up with the slight cock of his head. Rivaille rolls his eyes, looks back ahead to where people are crying against the iron gates of the patio.

“Tell Commander Smith I wish to see him. I have a proposition for him I’d quite like for him to hear. He’ll know where to meet me. Only say: the place where you first kissed Violette.”

Rivaille lets his eyes blink heavily, and he keeps them closed until Pierre finishes his speech.

The Ailes had been closed for two years. Rivaille knew well enough that he couldn’t go back, and without him or the rest of his company there was little else to do but sell the space. Unfortunately, in all that time none were interested in the small club, especially in the state of things. So it was boarded up, left to ruin. The state of it makes a stirring in Rivaille he’s been successfully ignoring for that span of time. The courtyard is empty of her lights, and the brick is reclaimed by weeds and grass. The door is chipping paint and the sign is faded slightly, covered partly by vines. Rivaille lets out a small breath, shoves his hands deep into his pockets to make fists. He does his best to ignore that feeling, and successfully he stuffs it down inside himself beyond another escape.

“He’ll never meet us here. He doesn’t trust you, Pierre.”

Pierre is facing the door, spinning his gun on his finger by the trigger guard. The cigarette that hangs out of his mouth is quickly turning to ash. “He’ll come if nothing else but to kill me. Or maybe curiosity will draw him out.” Pierre looks over his shoulder. “Or perhaps he misses you.”

Rivaille scowls and then scoffs, looking away “You and I both know that isn’t true. I had to fight him off from killing me last time don’t you remember?” So, Rivaille had lied to Pierre about what exactly occurred between him and Erwin. In more than just the sense of their altercation.

He had been very explicit in the false details he shared with Pierre, and careful about what he would say. Their relationship had been fabricated entirely by Rivaille as being one of throw away fucks. He hadn’t mentioned how he’d been uncharacteristically spending the night in Erwin’s bed, or letting himself be kissed awake in the morning, or spending the majority of his days in Erwin’s flat. He himself couldn’t understand it, and certainly wouldn’t be able to explain it to Pierre without admitting that he had gotten to close to his mark.

To tell the truth about Erwin’s mercy would be the single most explicit admission of a deeper romantic involvement between the two of them than what Pierre had come to believe. It was safer, to let Pierre think that Erwin held nothing but contempt for Rivaille, and vice versa.

“Did you consider much about your strategy?” says Rivaille, changing subject slyly. “We’re cornered in here.” After all the buildings that made the perimeter of the courtyard were a few stories high, and the entrance into it would certainly bottleneck them, but it also meant they could easily create a barrier to pen Pierre and Rivaille in.

“Stop questioning me,” Pierre snaps. He’s scowling, and Rivaille can see that he’s being very serious.

He simply scowls back, unable to do avoid being defiant, “I suppose I’ll stay quiet then? Let you get killed.”

Pierre whips around, facing him, “I know what I’m doing Rivaille. You need to just do as your told.”

Rivaille deadpans, “So much for a partnership.” He decides that it’s in his best interest not to upset Pierre any further. He sighs, and then looks away. “I’ll stay, Pierre. I just don't fucking like this plan.” The fingers he has on his own gun don’t stop fidgeting and in an effort to keep himself still he sits on one of the old tables to clean it with his handkerchief.

Pierre stares at him silently, and Rivaille feels his eyes boring into him. Finally, Pierre moves away and occupies himself elsewhere, and Rivaille doesn’t let himself look at him again. He feels relief where he knows he shouldn’t.

The sun sinks far beyond the horizon to make it dark in the courtyard, and there is still no sign of anyone coming to meet them. Rivaille knows the plan was stupid. If Pierre wanted an audience with Erwin he could have sent him a simple not. Then again, that wasn’t exactly Pierre’s style. He’d never been anything other than an eccentric; it preserved a boyishness in him that made Rivaille feel just as young sometimes. Other times it made Rivaille want to smother him with a pillow.

He stares at the courtyard’s entrance intently for over an hour before he finally hears the scuffle of boots. Pierre hears them, too, and immediately takes up a defensive position behind a table. Rivaille joins him, and he knows that in a pinch they can throw the table down and use it as shield. It’s flimsy and weathered, but it could certain get the job done. With so many police out these days there isn’t a doubt in Rivaille’s mind that the shots would be heard. What worries him is how long they could survive before being found. Yet somehow the fear he should feel is replaced by sheer anxiety.

Erwin rounds the corner, and it’s like seeing him for the first time again.

He is older in a certain way – distinctly weathered to make him appear older than his early thirties. His hair is cut differently, the shorter part at the back is shaved closer to his scalp and his hair is militarily neat. His eyes are colder blue than they used to be, and the cut of his cheek bones appear sharper. The clothes on his body are neater than they used to be, and newer. There’s a strap cross this chest to hold his shot gun, and over his right breast is the shining gold embroidered _Croix de Lorraine_ _._

Somebody must be taking care of him. Rivaille finds himself scowling without meaning to. Erwin looks at him, but doesn’t say a word, doesn’t change his expression, and then looks away.

Rivaille is so invested in looking him over he doesn’t notice the brigade behind him until he hears them. Hange is there, look the same as ever. She doesn’t bother trying to hide how she stares at Rivaille, and it makes his heart still when she snarls her lip ever so slightly. At once they had been friends – he might not have told her as much, but he considered them to be.

The rest of the brigade is comprised over younger faced people Rivaille doesn’t pay much attention to. They all have their guns pointed outward, which are not German standard issue. All of them are the same, and their unfamiliarity leads Rivaille to believe that they are Free French supply from England.

Pierre is the first to speak in the standoff. His own gun is out, but not raised.

“Good evening,” he greets, smiling. Rivaille looks at him out of the corner of his eyes. Pierre begins to speak in slow French. “Monsieur Smith I’m happy to finally meet your acquaintance. There’s no need for you to point those guns at me. I assure you I mean no harm to you.”

Rivaille still has his gun raised. Erwin glances at it and then back to Pierre.

“Forgive me for not believing you, Loutrel. You’ve given me enough reasons not to.”

Without looking Pierre reaches out and lowers Rivaille’s gun. “Will you let me at least speak before you shoot?” Rivaille looks to him incredulously, scowling, because surely he can’t be such a fool to think that Erwin wouldn’t pull the trigger without hearing a single thing he had to say. But Pierre fake pouts, puts on a show that ought to signal to Erwin that trusting him might be akin to trusting a madman.

“Then speak,” Erwin’s lip is stiff as he commands him.

“We want to join your side. The both of us.”

Erwin’s eyebrows shoot up and then settle back down into a scowl.

Pierre continues cautiously, both his hands raised. “This was not the side I chose to be on, and Rivaille, Isabelle, and Farlan only followed me as a pact we wouldn’t be separated by the war.” This second fact, was a lie. “The Nazis gave me an ultimatum. Either I join the Carlinque and produce results or I die. Surely you can understand that sometimes we are not afforded the choice in our own fates? Had I been capable I would have ran away, but there are other people I needed to look after.”

Erwin lifts his chin slightly, “So you became one of them? And what of all the people you killed, sent away?”

“I told you,” Pierre scowls. “They wanted results.”

“And what’s changed now? What makes you capable of fighting back?”

Pierre shakes his head, “I wouldn’t fight back the same way you do. The benefits of you having a man on the inside are too good to pass up. I could give you information; lead them away from you and your comrades. Say one of you was to get arrested? I could free you or have you spared. And technically its two men on the inside you know.” Rivaille can feel Pierre’s eyes on him. “He’s good at acting out a role when he needs to. The soldiers have taken to him before.”

Erwin looks back at him and they catch eyes again. Rivaille hates that he’s the first to look away.

“It’s not as easy for everyone to run away from becoming one of them,” Pierre adds. That draws Erwin’s gaze back. By the lack of a general reaction from among Erwin’s men, Rivaille assume that they must know as much as Rivaille and Pierre do about Erwin’s true past. “I’m not the only one to know Erwin, the whole brass knows about you now. Who you truly are.”

“Yet they haven’t acted upon it.” Erwin doesn’t sound convinced.

“Only because I have drawn their attentions away from you. You’re welcome, by the way, for that.” Rivaille sees that he's grinning. He’s not sure if this is true or Pierre is spinning lies to again for Erwin’s sake. “It’s only a matter of time before they discover something more substantial. Like your new base of operations. Or where exactly Zoe Hange’s husband is living. All things they’re looking to uncover, but I can prevent from surfacing.”

Hange makes an audible gasping sound. She looks to Erwin, and they seem to have a silent conversation with one another.

Pierre is smiling so wide his words are distorted, “I can help if you only let me cast my lot with you. Protect me when the time comes. Both of us.”

Erwin looks to Rivaille again with something that says he doesn’t want to protect Rivaille as much as he wants to rip him into two halves.

“I still don’t trust you,” he says, and Rivaille isn’t sure if he’s being directly addressed or not. “But I’ll consider you a tentative ally until I’m convinced otherwise.”

Pierre bounces on his toes and laughs gleefully, “Oh you won’t regret such a partnership.”

Rivaille glares at Pierre, but this sort of behavior wasn’t out of the ordinary. He picks his gun back up and holsters it, watching Erwin again. Pierre chatters on a string of information, but Erwin’s eyes are on Rivaille. He gives the command for his men to lower their guns and steps into the courtyard.

“You’ll be contacted for our next meeting I’d like to join us.”

Pierre nods, “When is it then?”

Erwin lips twitch, “You’ll be collected and escorted to the location.”

Rivaille can’t help but scoff. “Are we criminals?”

“Yes. You are.” Erwin looks down at him. It’s strange to stand toe to toe with him again. Rivaille nearly forgot what it was like to strain his neck to see those stupid eyebrows.

“Well isn’t lovely to see you again, _soldat_?” Rivaille scoffs. Pierre grabs hold of his arm and speaks low near his ear.

“Stop it, Rivvy.” It’s a nickname only used in the most intimate of situations and Rivaille finds himself strangely embarrassed to have it uttered in front of Erwin.

Whom Pierre turns back to with an apologetic smile, “I understand the two of you have history. Couldn’t it be put aside for the cause?

Erwin’s expressions completely stays flat. “No it can’t.”

Rivaille chokes on laughter that thankfully none of the others notice. Which it is strange for him to find that snap reaction so funny, as it’s an affront to him to have Erwin say such a thing. But he supposes he is pleased with the way that Erwin is completely unmoved by Pierre.

“Monsieur Smith,” Pierre starts. “Rivaille was only acting on my insistence.”

“He got half our men killed! And so did you!”

When Rivaille looks back to where the shout has come from he notices, first, how angry the boy looks. He’s almost taken aback by it. “Who’s that shitty brat?" he asks.

As the others move to restrain the boy – a dark haired girl in particular telling him something in a hushed voice Rivaille can’t here – Erwin starts to explain. “Ere-“

Pierre interrupts him. “Eren Jaeger. German ex-patriate, as is the case with the lot of them. Some of them worked in the Ailes, don’t you remember?”

He notices now some of the faces from the crowd that had filled in with hard lines and adult features since the last he’d seen them. Some of the children that had worked in the Ailes, the younger end of teenagers when he’d known them, were now full-fledged soldiers. The blonde boy from the ticket counter, Armin Arlert, won't stop looking at him.

“Our collaboration is mutually beneficially it seems, but if this is a trick I will take drastic measures without any hesitation. And I suppose it's clear how the rest of my men feel about the two of you.”

Pierre merely smirks.

They are bid goodnight and Erwin’s eyes linger on Rivaille as he goes with his men.

By the time they make it back to their flat, Pierre hasn’t dropped it.

“We can still use him, Rivaille,” he says cheerily, as they start to shed their clothes on either side of the bed. "You might think that look is nothing but I think it's really something."

This flat is much larger than the one they’d first shared as boys. If Rivaille tried hard enough, he could sometimes remember the smell of coal smoke from the train yards and the feeling of the damp wallpaper beneath his fingers. It was a disgusting place; drafty and rotting. Then they only had one mattress on the floor of an empty room to share between the two of them. Now they had a large bed each, but Pierre still insisted on having Rivaille sleep with him.

“Drop it, Pierre,” he grumbles while sliding under the covers.

“Alright,” Pierre laughs. He moves to cup Rivaille’s body with his own, kissing his temple and brushing his black hair behind his ear where it’s started to stray.

“It’s too hot to have you this close to me.”

“Stop complaining.” He kisses Rivaille there again, and then his cheek. “Let me show you affection, Rivvy. I do love you so. Don’t you know that?”

Rivaille bites his tongue.

Pierre kisses at his jaw. “Do you remember when we were younger I’d sit and pet your hair when you couldn’t sleep? As much as I’m happy you can sleep through the night, I miss being able to take care of you like that.”

He’s still silent, his eyes press shut. The memory of it is vivid in his mind. He always hated to cry in front of other people out of fear they’d think him weak. But when he’d wake up in the middle of the night crying with nightmares, Pierre wouldn’t say a word about him sobbing in his lap.

“I’m doing this for us, Rivvy. You know that don’t you? I want to protect you. I’ve always wanted to protect you from the moment I saw you.”

There’s a pause, and Rivaille nods to make Pierre happy. His eyes open back up slowly and he stares at the wall on the far side of the room. He can catch Pierre’s form in the vanity mirror as he’s looking down at Rivaille. His fingers paw through Rivaille’s hair and it's comforting.

“You know I hate to put you in situations like this don’t you?”

Rivaille doesn’t answer and the hand Pierre has on Rivaille’s hip that he hadn’t even noticed being there squeezes tightly. “Well don’t you, Rivaille?”

“Stop it, Pierre,” he grunts, moving out from under his arms. Pierre sighs, and for a while it is entirely silent in the room save for the sound of the ticking clock on Rivaille’s own heartbeat in his ears.

He twitches when he feels Pierre’s knuckles drag gently down his spine.

“I do think he loved you. And that he still does. Am I not allowed to be a little triumphant that you’re mine and he can’t have you?”

Rivaille nuzzles his cheek into the pillow so he can’t see Pierre’s reflection anymore.

“He doesn’t love me,” he replies. “He hates me.”

Pierre laughs, “Oh but aren’t they one in the same?” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -chapter title means "Love and Hate"


	14. Le Commandant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why exactly are you back, Rivaille?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One in a series of three updates. I got a lot of writing done today! Seriously, it's the most writing I've ever done in one day...

They are escorted to the meeting by Rico, who does not speak to them or look to them for more than a second to say:

“Follow me.”

Rico and Rivaille had never been great friends, but he was familiar with her. Now her radio broadcast was quite famous, and she was responsible for contacting the Free French across the channel. Pixis may be the head of communications and publishing among their company, but she was formidable in her own right. Rivaille respected her.

And she stared at the two of them like she would take no great disappointment in being the one to kill them.

The meeting is held in a warehouse by the train depot. Rivaille is familiar with the area by the smell alone, and the energy in a certain aspect. If a person were blindfolded and put in the house they grew up in, surely they could recognize it just by feeling alone. He felt quite the same way.

There were no chairs, and the empty ground floor is expansive, but nearly filled with people. Over the years the Resistance had become increasingly unpopular due to the extreme measures they were taking. Yet, it appeared, that unpopularity didn’t stop from their membership from rising.

Rico leads Pierre and Rivaille to the front of the crowd, where Erwin is standing. He wears all black today, apart from his white shirt, and this includes the black leather riding gloves which he gingerly removes as he stands there. The starkness of the color makes his features piercing; his hair blonder and eyes bluer despite the dim room they’ve gathered in.

He stares at Rivaille as he and Pierre approach.

“You’ll stay up close to me,” he says without paying them much attention. His back turns to them and it’s clear they’re expected to follow. Rivaille rolls his eyes, already annoyed with the entire situation.

The meeting starts with Hange calling for everyone to quiet.

“Good evening,” Erwin begins. “My apologies for our meeting being held in a location unfamiliar to us all. Not only are our numbers too large today, to fit inside our normal base of operations, but we have to take precautions. There are two large points of discussion that serve as the purpose of me calling you all here today. They’re tangentially connected and I hope you’re willing to give me your patience.”

He moves to stand up on one the loading docks, having it serve as a makeshift dais for the sake of the crowd seeing his face. Rivaille and Pierre are standing in the front row, bookended by two rather large men that Rivaille sees as obstacles more than threats. The man next to him keeps shifting his weight, suggesting he has weak knees. He thinks, _come now, Erwin, you could do better than that_. What sharp blow below the kneecap would surely send him down permanently.

“Now, the Allies and Free French have been sending supplies for some time now and rarely ask any specific missions from us. However, they’ve entrusted me with information about an offensive they plan to take. Our help is needed. But we will need help as well. Intelligence is vital this operation and while I am still discussing the details, I know that the information is more of a collaboration on both ends.”

His eyes go down to Rivaille, again ignoring Pierre’s existence entirely.

“So I have brought on two individuals to work on the inside. Rivaille and Pierre Loutrel have come to me asking to join our ranks and I have decided to extend them the honor. However, they will not be privy to all information that we as a whole share.”

A hum starts to rise amongst the crowd that increases exponentially until Rivaille can hear some shouts. He looks back behind him, and Hange is standing there, staring down with her big, nightmarish brown eyed stare. She crosses her arms, glowering. “Eyes ahead, Rivaille.”

Erwin shouts in a way Rivaille has never heard before.

“Silence.”

And people obey immediately.

“They are under my protection. If you are standing here and scheming to kill either of them I will warn you that you will have to kill me first. They are _vital_ to the success of this mission and I will not have personal vendettas destroy our chances.”

“They killed our friends!” comes a shout from the crowd

“How can you bear to look them in the eye after what they did to _your_ men, Commander?!” comes another.

Rivaille doesn’t think of looking back now. Erwin is staring coldly, jaw tense to the point of showing the dimples in his skin near his ears. He has his hands balled to fists at his sides and slowly, Rivaille watches, his chest rise and fall in a sigh he cannot hear.

“We don’t always have the choice in our allies. Sometimes he must set aside what we think is right in order to gain what we need. I hate them as much as you do, you can trust that.”

Rivaille grits his teeth and Pierre snorts out a laugh beside him.

Erwin nods, “But I will ignore what they’ve done for the sake of winning this war and I swear to you that you will sooner be dead than they are.”

After the meeting is over, Rivaille and Pierre are forced to remain. Hange tells them that it is for their safety that they stay behind. They’re having a car brought around for them.

“Was Erwin’s threat to murder them all not enough to deter them from attacking us?” Rivaille mutters under his breath.

Pierre smirks at Rivaille, puts a hand on his back casually and rolls his thumb in tight circles under his right shoulder blade. It was spot that always had a knot of tricky muscle and Rivaille liked to have Pierre work at it for relief from the ache.

Erwin appears behind him and he can sense him staring before he hears him speak.

“You’re not going home quite yet. I’d like to have a word with both of you about what’s expected from you.”

The warehouse was entirely empty now save for Rico, Pixis, Erwin, Hange, and the two of them. Pierre slid his hand away from Rivaille’s back as he turned around. The loss of warmth and the hole of it replaced with Erwin’s frigid stare enough to make him break out in goosebumps. He shoots him back an equally unpleasant look in response.

Pierre smiles charmingly, “Anything you need, Monsieur Smith.”

There’s a small table and chairs set up in one of the upper-floor offices of the warehouse. Rivaille was inclined to believe it was abandoned before, but the office spaces appear to be livable – though dirty in a way that makes his skin crawl. He looks around as he’s asked to sit, Pierre’s hand snakes beneath the table and finds his knee. Rivaille tries to ignore it.

“We need information on the supply lines towards the North,” Erwin says. He lights a match and ignites a cigarette into life. Rivaille has his own cigarette, and it’s unlike Erwin to simply throw him the box of matches across the table rather than light it for him. Rivaille scowls and does it himself, bubbling with contempt.

“Anything I should look out for specifically?” Pierre asks. He leans in and lights his cigarette off of Rivaille’s, bringing in their mouths close and staring into his eyes as he does. Rivaille catches Erwin watching.

“Arms primarily, then medical. Reinforcements if that comes up, or information when men will be moved from a Northern location and if there will be a period of time where they will be at their weakest. I’d like you to specifically look into the areas northwest of France.”

Pierre nods, “When do you need the information?”

“I’d like you to consider the next three weeks as your window of time. I’d prefer this information to be shared with me by the end of the week.”

“Alright I’ll have i-“

“You’ll send Rivaille.”

Erwin’s face is entirely serious. Rivaille quirks an eyebrow and then turns to Pierre who appears as if he might rip out Erwin’s throat with the smile he gives.

“Why would I allow you near the man you’ve already tried to kill?”

Erwin cocks his head slightly, “Do you not trust me?”

Pierre laughs. “You don’t trust me,” he says defensively.

“Enough to defend you with my life against my own men. Do you think I’ll kill Rivaille now? I won’t. And I’ll have you know that when the operation takes place he will participate alongside the rest of us.”

Nobody speaks and Pierre’s cigarette quickly is turning to ash without any attention. Rivaille stares at Erwin, “I am insurance to you? I don’t get to be your bargaining chip. For either of you.” He feels a sensation in his legs that demands him to walk out now and never look back.

“You’re part of this cause now,” Erwin counters. “I’m giving you a command and you will follow it. Both of you. Your reluctance tells me that you aren’t as devoted as you say you are. So I’ve taken the precaution to come up with leverage. If you don’t actively participate I will simply notify your superiors, Pierre, that you have decided to change sides. And if you do anything to endanger our operation in the North then you will be putting Rivaille in danger as well.”

Pierre speaks through gritted teeth, “This is madness.”

“It’s strategy. If I want to ensure your loyalty then I will find my ways. You have to put something important on the table, too, Loutrel.” He looks to Pixis. “Dot will go over the maps with you and show specific railways you should look out for. I’d like to speak with Rivaille privately.”

Rivaille shakes his head immediately, furious, but remaining calm. “No.”

Erwin doesn’t flinch. “That’s an order, Rivaille.”

“Where will you take him?” Pierre asks defensively. The hand he has on Rivaille’s knee tightens into acknowledgement. His leg twitches at the pain, but he doesn’t let it show on his face.

“Just outside the door. I’ll leave my pistol inside…” he offers, setting it down on the table. “If you’re worried about me trying to murder him still.” He stands up and looks to Rivaille expectantly.

He stands as well, pulling his knee out from Pierre’s iron grip. Erwin defaults to him leading the way, which he does, and doesn’t glance back at Pierre before he disappears outside the door. He’s confident that Erwin doesn’t plan on murdering him, but he’s certain that he means to talk and that strikes more fear into him.

Erwin shuts the door behind them, and he looks down at Rivaille with thick, furrowed brows. It’s almost as if he’s confused by him. His words confirm it, as he slips into English.

“Why exactly are you back, Rivaille?”

He keeps his eyes level with his own height and leans against the wall. Erwin didn’t deserve his attention of his efforts as far as he was concerned. Not anymore.

“Pierre suggested it. I could have done without seeing you for the rest of my life.”

Erwin moves to stand directly in front of him, leaning down slightly to catch his gaze. “Do you do everything he says? You don’t seem the type to be someone’s lapdog…”

Rivaille scowls and turns his chin up slightly, realizing how close Erwin had managed to get.

“Fuck you. I’m not his lapdog,” Rivaille finds himself growling, as the insult manages to strike a particular nerve in him he doesn’t expect to cause such a reflex. Erwin even takes notice of it, and raises an eyebrow.

“Is that why you betrayed your own friends and got them killed?”

Rivaille can’t take it anymore. He snaps, shoving Erwin away from him. “I didn’t do anything to kill them. I did mean for any of that to happen.” Erwin stumbles back, his weight throw off less by Rivaille’s strength, but more by the surprise of Rivaille doing anything to hurt him. He grabs his wrist immediately and shoves it into the wall hard enough to make Rivaille wince.

“They’re all dead because of _you_. It may help you sleep at night to think that you have no responsibility for the events that occurred, but you do, make no mistake.”

He tries his damnest to pull free, but reconsiders after a moment. He could tell him everything now. He could tell him just how he found himself in Erwin’s bed in the first place. How Pierre played a role. But Farlan’s fate was proof of what happened when people crossed Pierre and Farlan only _thought_ of revealing the truth.

His jaw is tense and brow set so far into a scowl that it makes his muscles twitch.  “I did what I had to do. Do you really think I don’t give a fuck about them dying?”

Erwin’s lip curls slightly, but the rest of his expression remains pallid. “How am I supposed to know what you feel, Rivaille?”

He should have been able to feel something at the very least.

Rivaille keeps his eyes settled right on Erwin’s, because he’s refusing to back away. “I didn’t. Want. Any of it. To happen.”

“Then what was the purpose of what you did to me? I hesitate to say the word seduction, but I’m not certain what else I’d call it.”

Rivaille rolls his eyes and then snaps them back into place, and suddenly they’re wide. It dawns on him, and he yanks his wrist free by shoving with the heel of his free hand’s palm right into Erwin’s forearm. He hisses and releases, but immediately Rivaille grabs hold of it to get his attention back.

“Listen to me. Right now, _soldat_.” He licks his lips, trying to ensure Erwin’s paying the mind he needs. “Pierre doesn’t know how far we went. How…” After a moment he finds the right words. “How our relationship turned romantic. He knows about the fucking, but he never knew about anything else. Listen to me. You cannot. Tell. Him.”

Erwin scowls, “Why not?”

Rivaille stares back. “Just do as I say.”

“Why not, Rivaille?” Erwin repeats, persistent. He grips onto the lapel of Rivaille’s jacket, face coming closer. Rivaille is already backed up against the wall, so he tips his head up as far as he can. Erwin is staring down, and there’s undeniable fear in his sea blue eyes. Rivaille recognizes that the fear is for his sake and it frustrates him.

“What are you doing?” The words are in French, grated and cold, and come from neither Rivaille, nor Erwin.

Both men look to the side to see Pierre standing in the hall. His dark eyes are devoid entirely of the whites, it seems, in this lighting. He cocks his head slightly and crosses his arms.

Erwin releases Rivaille as Rivaille releases his wrist and shoves him off. Their mouths had been so close and their bodies nearly touching. It was entirely incriminating and Rivaille is trying to find Pierre’s gaze in the dark so he can calm him.

“Pierre, it’s all right.” He moves towards him, and almost immediately his hand his taken with an exceedingly strong grasp. One that crushes his bones, one he instinctively tires to pull away from, but is immediately held tighter by.

“Rivvy, did he hurt you?” A palm cups his cheek and he and he can see deep brown eyes regarding him with the greatest concern and care.

“I’m fine, Pierre. Let go of me.”

Pierre does, and he scowls. “What did he do?”

“ _I’m fine_.” He repeats. Erwin comes up beside them and stares down at them both as he pauses in his departure.

“Rivaille wasn’t in any danger. If I wanted to kill him he’d be dead.” His eyes go to Rivaille for only half of a moment, but Rivaille knows them well enough to see that he’s worried. He swallows and looks away from him. When he looks up again, Erwin has gone.

Pierre reaches out and kisses him deeply, pushing his lips far into Rivaille’s without any warning. He struggles against it, out of surprise, and then kisses back with a sigh. When Pierre leans away, he keeps his forehead pressed against Rivaille’s.

“I’m sorry, Rivaille. I never meant to get you tangled up with him again.”

Rivaille isn’t certain if he should believe that. He kisses Pierre anyway, licking along his lips to gain entry into his mouth. He finds it easier to give Pierre the promise of sex than accept the apology he can’t trust.

“Let’s go home, Pierre,” he says, holding onto the belt loops of his trousers, looking down at his fingers. “I’m not interested in talking about it. Just fuck me until I can’t speak.”

Pierre smirks softly, tipping Rivaille’s chin back up, “I’ll fuck you until you can’t even remember his name.”

He succeeds, of course, in fucking him until he can’t speak. The latter promise, goes unfulfilled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -le commandant means "the commander"


	15. Réunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hands come down on Rivaille’s shoulders, and then slide up his neck to his cheeks. “If I had the choice I wouldn’t let you near him. But he wants you, Rivaille, why can’t you see that? He wants you alone with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second update of three!

Rivaille wakes before Pierre does. He was called to bed the moment he’d walked in the door, meaning that his make-up from the night’s performance is still caked on his face and his red lips are smeared by the kisses he was smothered with through the night.

Pierre has always looked so peaceful when he slept, and sometimes, when he sweat, his brown hair would curl into little ringlets around the crown of his head to make him somewhat like a cherub. As a boy he’d had an angelic sort of face, plump and red cheeked. Beautiful, albeit untraditionally.

He leans in, kisses his forehead and sighs against it so the short curls tickle his nose when they are disheveled by his breath. He’s glad Pierre iss a heavy sleeper.

Erwin wasn’t. Or he hadn’t been. Two years could certainly change a person. It had changed Rivaille.

When he’s in the bath, Pierre stumbles in to join him. It’s not uncommon for them to bathe together. The day they’d met, they had. Though then it was necessity, with Rivaille too weak to stand. Pierre had washed his hair, and didn’t seem to mind that he was covered in blood and shit. He’d even cut his hair with a straight razor afterwards – something only his mother had done prior to that day.

“I love you,” Pierre says, settling behind Rivaille. He kisses at the short hair at the nape of his neck.

Rivaille mutters a half-hearted affirmative in response.

The morning carries on with Pierre dressing and Rivaille staring at him as he does. He feels ill, and hates the way the heat permeates through the room with an inescapable heaviness to make nowhere safe from its reach. Pierre complains about it as he buttons his jacket. 

“I’m worried for you.”

Rivaille sighs, “I’ll have my gun.” The pistol is sitting on the table, it has sentimental value. It was a gift after all, from Pierre, on his sixteenth birthday. “He won’t kill me.”

Pierre glares. “He’s obsessed with you.”

“No he’s not, you’re being paranoid.”

“He is,” Pierre says as he walks to him. His hands come down on Rivaille’s shoulders, and then slide up his neck to his cheeks. “If I had the choice I wouldn’t let you near him. But he wants you, Rivaille, why can’t you see that? He wants you alone with him.”

Rivaille closes his eyes, “I’m going to be fine.”

“Forgive me for being concerned with you, Rivaille,” he says defensively. Rivaille can’t see his face, but he knows he must look angry with him. “After all, our relationship began with me protecting you from a man who was obsessed with you…”

Rivaille opens his eyes again, and narrows them. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t send me into their beds in the first place,” he bites back impulsively. Pierre’s nostrils flare.

“I do what I have to do. It’s not like you don’t enjoy fucking them.”

Rivaille pulls out of his grip then, deciding that he’s had enough. “Where’s the message? I’m leaving now.”

“You know I didn’t mean that,” he hears behind him. Heavy footfalls make the floorboards creak. Pierre holds him from behind, kisses his neck, just where he likes. “Rivaille, I’m sorry. Everything is so tense right now. But soon enough we can be free. I’m taking these chances for _us_ , you know? We can go back to how it was, don’t you miss it?”

Rivaille has his fingernails digging into his palm, his fists are balled so tight. He tips his head away, waiting for Pierre to finally let go. “I know, Pierre. I need to go now. Where’s the message?”

Erwin lives in yet another new apartment, but he’s familiar with the address this time. When it’s given to him he’s surprised to see it and has to ask the messenger boy, Armin, if it’s correct. He tells him it is, while also being entirely afraid of him, which is as amusing as it is wounding.

The apartments above the Ailes are picturesque on the opposite side of the entrance of the club. On the side that faces the street, they are wide-windowed and dotted with flower boxes filled with summer blooms. It’s fragrant and bright, painted a beautiful cream with copper roofing.

Erwin is on the fifth floor, the top floor of the building, and has taken the precaution of several locks on the door. Rivaille knocks and chuckles at how overly-cautious Erwin has managed to get in the time they’ve been apart.

“It’s me, _soldat_.” He says as a way to get Erwin to actually open the door.

He’s surprised when a woman answers.

“Oh dear. My apologies, I was just leaving.”

She’s pretty, dark haired with the lightest blue eyes he’s ever seen. Her curls are disheveled and she wears her dress open too far at the top, so her breasts are nearly exposed and her slip is crumpling out of the opening. He quirks an eyebrow and steps aside for her to go, and she walks away with her ass swinging from side to side. Rivaille considered himself a whore, and he could spot another whore with perfect accuracy.

Erwin appears in the doorway. He’s casually, half-dressed himself and has his hair lazily brushed into place. His cheeks are still red enough that Rivaille knows he’s just had a fuck.

“You’re early.”

“Did you do that on purpose?”

Erwin scowls, ushering him inside, “What are you talking about?” He shuts the door behind Rivaille. The flat is small and decorated like a pauper’s room. The bed looks like it might fall apart at any moment, and there’s not even a proper kitchen. Not to mention it being filthy, despite it being spotless of clothes or items of any personal value.

“You had a woman here at the exact time you know I’d be coming by.” Rivaille makes himself at home by sitting at the table. He crosses his arms, looking around, and sees how disheveled the bed is. “Was she any good? Considering she didn’t have a prick, I don’t know how you managed to even get it up.”

Erwin looms over him, putting a hand on the back of his chair, hissing out. “That’s none of your business, Rivaille.”

“You made it my business,” he mumbles. “Get me some of your shitty wine or something. I’m parched.”

Erwin pushes off the chair, moving towards the sorry excuse for a kitchen. He pours cheap wine into two mugs and sets one down at the table for Rivaille without any sort of grace. He takes a seat next to him, facing the chair toward him entirely.

It’s strange to be in a room alone with him again, and to have it so much like sex, and to know that he’s been replaced by _some woman_. Was she the one planting the flowers outside the window? Was she the one cleaning the place and setting out his clothes and reminding him to bathe?

He drinks the wine, putting enough into his belly that it warms him down to the tips of his fingers. Erwin watches him, and he tries to ignore that creepy stare, but knows full well that he can’t.

“Where’s the message, Rivaille?”

He pulls an envelope out of his pocket and sets it down in front of Erwin with a glare. “I’ll finish my wine and be gone. Pierre wants to make sure you read it before I leave.”

Erwin doesn’t open it.

“Does he hurt you?” He asks instead. Bluntly.

Rivaille pauses mid sip and sets his cup back down. His eyebrow is raised. “How the fuck do you think you can get away with asking something like that?”

Erwin’s gaze his hard and commanding. “I know he killed Farlan.”

His stomach rolls around on itself uncomfortably, and now the wine seems like an awful idea in hindsight. His lips tighten and press against themselves until they’re between his teeth. It’s useless to lie and say that Erwin doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Rivaille was there when he was buried. And then that night he spent the night at Erwin’s flat so he could have some reprieve. Pierre’s company became unbearable and the excuses for the murder were so tiresome.

“Farlan was trying to switch sides. I don’t blame him.” His voice cracks tellingly.

“Do you fear he’ll do the same to you?”

Erwin’s tipped his head down so he can meet Rivaille’s eyes at level. Rivaille wants nothing more than to smack that stupid, worried look off his face.

“What do you care?” he snaps. “You’re the one who’s _actually_ made a fucking attempt on my life.”

That seems to work well to force him out of his personal space.

“I won’t apologize for that, Rivaille.”

“I don’t expect any less out of you.” Truly. He doesn’t in the slightest.

He takes another sip of his wine, deciding that it’s the best way to make this conversation bearable.

“Do you agree with what he’s doing? Pierre, I mean.”

It’s a question he’s never been asked. It’s not as if he was consulted, rather he was drafted to the cause. A part of him wants to be dishonest, and tell Erwin yet another fabricated story. But by some strange occurrence the truth spills out of his mouth.

“No. I don’t. I’m...” he sighs. “My father was Jewish. Not as if it matters to me or anyone else. But it matters to a Nazi.”

Erwin’s expression opens slightly. “Do any of them know?”

Rivaille shakes his head, looking out the window, “I don’t have my father’s last name. And I don’t consider him my father. He never cared for me. I hardly ever spoke to him.”

“Is he dead now?”

“I don’t know,” Rivaille shrugs. “I don’t care. But Pierre makes certain than nobody finds out about where I came from. It doesn’t matter to them that you’re only considered a Jew by your mother, not your father.”

Erwin presses on, “And where’s your mother now?”

“Dead. Since I was twelve.” He looks down, staring at the wine in his cup, which is low enough now so he can see the bottom through the opaque red hue. “Don’t start feeling sorry for me, _soldat._ I don’t want your fucking sympathy.”

He glances up again to see Erwin calmly staring back.

“Then I won’t give you any, if that’s what you really want.” He pauses. “How did you meet Pierre?”

“Are you going to keep asking questions?” Rivaille scowls back.

The corner of Erwin’s mouth pulls up slightly, “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation? Just answer me. I deserve to know.”

Rivaille wants to argue back, but instead he finds himself saying: “Four months after my mother died. I’d been sleeping with men for money. One got too close, and Pierre found me and helped me. We we've been together ever since.”

Erwin nods, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “And you fell in love him?”

Rivaille hesitates, “Yes. We started fucking when we were fifteen. We’re the same age, not like it matters. We could have been children, it was up to me. He let me come to him.”

“It doesn’t seem that way now.”

“Don’t make fucking assumptions about our relationship.” Rivaille scoffs. “He takes care of me and I take care of him.” It’s ridiculous to defend Pierre, but its familiar and a habit and something he hates to find himself doing despite the way he feels. His lips press together and he takes another sip of his wine, finishing it. “I want more.” He pushes the cup across the table to Erwin.

Erwin simply gives him his own cup. His thick brows aren’t knitted together or anything, like they usually are when he’s thinking hard about something, but Rivaille can see the cogs turning inside his head.

“What’s that shitty look for?” he asks. “I’m not asking you to understand anything, Erwin. I don’t know why you’re even trying to.”

He finds that expression turn into a scowl.

“Forgive me for trying then. I suppose it’s a nonsensical habit I need to break, caring for you.”

Rivaille looks away immediately. “Shut up. Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?”

Erwin is nothing, if not persistent. “Did you ever even care about me? The other night you told me not to tell Pierre we’d become romantic. Why?”

“Shut up.”

“No.” He grabs Rivaille’s forearm. “Rivaille answer me.” Rivaille looks back to him, scowling.

“Shut. Up”

“Please. Rivaille.”

His eyes are so honest and Rivaille feels the warmth of the wine in his cheeks and in his chest. He misses him, if he’s honest to himself – which he rarely is for his own self-preservation. He misses the way Erwin kissed him, and how he could over-power him and still manage to do it with care. He finds himself thinking on the days, where he stops trying to ignore it, how Erwin looked and smelled and breathed and sounded. How shitty his French was and how stupid his hair was when he woke up in the morning.

He answers by leaning in closer, watching Erwin do the same. The large hand on the table snakes up over his forearm where it squeezes and pulls him along, draws him closer in.

Rivaille is so certain he will kiss back when their lips finally touch. He watches Erwin’s mouth, as he wets it with his tongue, and then looks to his eyes. Where he finds them so soft looking back at him, watching him while his thumb dips under where his shirt is folded at the sleeve.

In the span of a few moments, the tenderness rushes out and is replaced with something empty and cold that Rivaille can’t describe. He wriggles his arm away and Erwin is hesitant, but releases him anyway.

“You’re right,” he says as Rivaille moves to stand. It’s clear he’s trying to read Rivaille’s reaction.

“About what?” Rivaille asks, straightening his collar.

“Doing this. There’s an old saying…fool me once, I think it goes?” Erwin closes himself off so tightly it makes Rivaille’s chest constrict. He watches him pull the cup of wine back to his mouth, drink it in a thick gulp and set it back down on the table with a clatter. “You ought to go.”

The emptiness in him turns into something else entirely, and it burns in him.

“You know that woman is never going to be as good as I am.”

Erwin laughs monotonously, in a breath, and looks away from Rivaille. “Come off it.”

“I mean it.” He’s never handled rejection well. He was allowed to reject people, but he was so damn tired of Erwin lying about not wanting him. He knew exactly what he wanted. “If you think you’re going to find something comparable to us in her cunt you’re wrong. I know how much you loved fucking me instead of women.”

Erwin is leering now, eyes wider than he’s seen them before.

“You’re the one who told me to stop so what exactly do you want Rivaille?”

“What exactly do _you_ want? You threatened to kill me before and now you’re worrying over me, trying to kiss me.”

“For a good damn reason!” Erwin stands up, making the chair scrape against the floor. Rivaille doesn’t back down regardless.

“I was forced to do those things. I protected you where I could. I withheld informa-“

“You were a spy dammit.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he growls.

“I fell in love with you,” Erwin says coldly.

Rivaille is stunned. Of course, he knew. He could sense it, feel it, taste it. Every moment they were together it flooded out of Erwin, as if somehow he thought he was hiding, when it was the most blatant display of it.

But hearing him say it is something else entirely and this time he doesn’t hold back when he kisses Erwin. He lets himself be pulled in close and lifted until his toes scrape the ground for purchase. He feels the breath kick of his chest with the force of Erwin’s arms and the way every inhale is sucked away from him between Erwin’s lips.

He finds himself on the table after a moment, and spreads his legs submissively so Erwin can fit between them and push them farther apart. He doesn’t waste a moment going for his belt, palming at Erwin sloppily just to feel him there under his hand. He hears the breath rattle in Erwin’s chest, raggedly panting already.

His hands are exact as he undresses Rivaille, and he’s surprised to see him stay so calm with his hand wrapped around and stroking his cock into hardness. It’s a task that doesn’t take much time, and he licks at his palm to wet it so he can move it faster over his dick.

Erwin bites his mouth, nips and forces him to gasp and keen, roll his body beneath him. His chest presses outward and his mouth hangs open and ready for when he Erwin shoves his tongue inside to claim his mouth. He allows that marking of territory, allows every dominant touch or predatory stare Erwin is willing to give. He finds himself wanting it so desperately, because he knows that he wants to be his. He always has.

There’s only a brief moment where their lips part and it’s for Erwin to pull off the rest of Rivaille’s clothes. In that time his mouth goes, instead, to his throat.

“Erwin…” he gasps. “Stop it you asshole. You can’t mark me.”

Erwin fists at his cock so hurriedly that it makes a moan shove out of his mouth. He pushes at his shirt, forcing it off so he can dig his nails into his shoulders as he bucks his hips up off the table. Erwin’s mouth fits around the side of his neck and closes down on it deliciously.

“I told you to fucking stop,” he groans. Erwin’s thumb presses down on the underside of his cock and rubs at it slowly.

“I want him to know,” Erwin breathes. He leans up and kisses at his ear almost sweetly before pushing Rivaille down on the table. He gasps at the force that’s used, hitting his back hard on the smooth polished wood. His legs spread for him again, now Erwin can see all of him, and he doesn’t tease. His fingers go immediately to his entrance and rub at the ring of muscle with heated persistence.

Rivaille arches and pulls at Erwin’s shirt so he can kiss him again, going for his jaw. “I fucking hate you. You ruined everything.” He bites, drags his teeth until he gets the moan he aims for. Erwin pants against his ear, pulls him up by sliding a hand under his back and ripping his nails across his skin.

“Is he going to know if I send you back with bruises?” Erwin shoves him back on the table, moves only a few feet away to grab the same oil they were using those years before. Rivaille’s stomach floats excitedly, anxiously, worriedly.

“I’ll say they’re from him.” He moves his legs around Erwin when he comes back, slides one so his calf rests up on his shoulder. “He fucked me this morning. And last night. Twice.”

Erwin pushes a finger inside of him unceremoniously, and easily as Rivaille hasn’t even had the chance to get that tight again. He ruts his himself down on it hungrily and Erwin bites his own lip as he watches. Rivaille puts on a show, something he knows he’s good at, tossing his head back and palming at his own cock while Erwin works him open.

“Did he come inside of you?” Erwin asks.

Rivaille just smirks back, liking the way Erwin's behaving. He likes the dominance, because it’s different than Pierre’s.

He adds another finger, and then quickly fits in another. “God…Rivaille.” He’s watching him with heavy lidded eyes and a permanently open mouth. Rivaille just keens again, bowing his back until his chest is presented. His palm moves roughly over his own dick until precome leaks across the thatch of hair below his belly button.

“Did you come inside of that woman?”

Erwin pulls his fingers out of him, uses the remnant oil to shove Rivaille’s hand away and stroke him slow. Rivaille breathes out a curse, puts his palms flat on the table so he can get enough leverage to pump his hips upward.

“No,” he says simply. His body comes down over Rivaille’s and he drags his lips back and forth over his, but never closes the kiss. His hand moves from Rivaille, and down below to guide his cockhead up against Rivaille’s entrance. “I couldn’t…come for her.”

Rivaille’s breath comes out in uneven, jagged gasps. He pushes his own hips down, eager for him. “No?”

“No. I can’t…” Erwin pushes in, his eyes going wider, mouth falling open. He breathes out the rest of his sentence in a hurry. “I can’t come for any of them.”

Rivaille whimpers, wraps his arms around Erwin’s neck and pulls him in close so his mouth is hot against his cheek. He lets it slide against his skin as Erwin slams his hips up into him, not concerning himself with the stretch or the way he fills him impossibly. Erwin doesn’t mean to hurt him, and the ache is almost perfect to him, it almost makes it better.

“I love you.”

He says it without thinking, gasping it out against Erwin’s ear and gripping on to his sweat dampened blonde hair at the back where it’s shortest. He feels him moan, low in his chest. He feels the tick of breath against his temple when Erwin says his name.

“I love you,” he repeats. For good measure. For the both of them to hear said aloud again.

Erwin finishes with a yelp, and slams out of him like a reflex. His hips hit Rivaille’s hard enough to bruise, and he can feel the wetness of the come dripping out of him. He’s still hard and Erwin takes him in hand, despite looking like he might keel over, and pulls away far enough to take him into his mouth. It takes him a moment, to remember, it seems, but he moves in a perfectly unpracticed way that sends Rivaille over the edge too quickly.

He doesn’t bother to ask when he comes into his mouth. He only needs to look at the way Erwin has his eyes up on him, watching and adoring and fervent and loving. Every drop is swallowed, and he only moans when Rivaille practically rips out his hair with his fists at the force of the orgasm.

And when they’re done, he’s so spent; he can hardly stop his legs from shaking or his chest from heaving or his eyes from slipping closed. It wasn’t a long fuck, nor was it particularly taxing physically. But the weight attached to it was nothing short of an Atlas burden and he’s expended himself more than any other time he’s ever fucked in his life.

Erwin is shaking too, but he picks up Rivaille gently and carries him slowly to his bed. The princess carry is unnecessary, and silly, but Rivaille curls into him all the same.

They gather themselves in bed and Rivaille lets himself be held so tightly he can’t even consider leaving. Erwin’s chest is broad and smooth, rises and falls the way he remembers when Erwin falls asleep. He breathes him in, presses his fingers with a half an effort into the lines and planes of his muscles, the scars that have doubled or tripled in number since the last time he’d seen him unclothed.

“I loved you. I still do. I tried not to,” Erwin says again, surprising Rivaille by still being awake. Even if it is just barely.

Rivaille nods, presses his head up under his chin and nuzzles there, kisses the dip between his collarbones.

“Just go to sleep, _soldat_. I’ll have to leave by sun down.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -réunion means reunion


	16. Ignition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivaille had never seen somebody believe their own lies so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the third! Thanks for reading and as always comments, kudos, and messages on tumblr are more than welcome.
> 
> Reminder that I wrote a side fic about what happened to nana and mike called Nine which can be found here on ao3.
> 
> Enjoy! We're coming up on the end soon!

**-Juin 1944-**

The Allies land on the sixth of June and it becomes profusely clear what the purpose of Pierre is in their success. Several plans had been created to sabotage the German forces, and Erwin’s faction, taking on the color green, had been assigned the railway.

Pierre holds his hands tightly, kisses him on the mouth until his lips are drying and cracking uncomfortably.

“Stop worrying, Pierre,” he warns more than pleads. He kisses back half-heartedly and takes lets his hands be trapped.

Rivaille will be away for a day, perhaps two. The mission is simple: sets explosives along the tracks of the railways that will take supplies and men North. The Allies are planning to invade further, and Rivaille is taking part in the mission, alongside the other Resistance men and women, even if it is tangential. He permits the sense of pride he feels in his involvement, though he keeps it secret from Pierre.

“Rivvy, I love you fiercely,” he says in the childish voice he picks up from time to time. At once it had been a charming reminder the boy he used to be. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to put you in danger.”

He had said the same to Isabel and Farlan once, too. _You’re like my family you know_. He would tell them all the time that they were like his brother and sister _only closer_. He said it to them both up until the day he let the Nazi’s attack Isabel and put a gun into Farlan’s mouth for being upset by it. When he told him about Isabel sharing that the Nazi’s had gone after them, enough information to tip of Erwin that they were being hunted, Pierre had growled out about it served her right to be killed the way she was.

They went from family to collateral damage in the span of a few moments. Rivaille had never seen somebody believe their own lies so much.

The kisses go on for too long, and finally, finally, Rivaille is let free to the stables.

He had become familiar to him, as Erwin had called him there a few times prior to this particular day, for training and such. Rivaille had to become accustomed to riding a horse at full gallop, and shooting from a shotgun both on the ground and atop his black mare. A pretty, strong thing he’d named Rose. When asked by Erwin why he’d decided on the name, he explained that his mother’s name was Roselin and that it seemed rude to name her the same as his horse. So he’d settled on a bastardization of her name instead, and was quite satisfied by it.

The last he’d been to the stables before training was the day he saw Petra and Isabel. Petra had been a girl he’d cared for, as well as her family. After she’d passed he’d sent money to her father, anonymously of course as he’d never known the man personally.

Now a trip to the stables meant a moment spared with Erwin. He’d taken to training him individually, not allowing any of the others to watch or participate. So that he could let his hands stray when holding him in the correct stance to fire the shotgun, or ride along with him without seeming to familiar, especially when they would fall into a trot and he would kiss at Rivaille’s ears.

They’re alone when Rivaille arrives, and he takes a moment to kiss him a greeting better than a silly “hello”. Erwin sighs against his lips, slides his leather gloved hands down to his upper thighs to gather him up and hold him in his arms as they kiss.

Though this time they’re caught – the first it’s ever happened and it’s a sign of their carelessness. Hange stands in the stall doorway and stares, narrowing her eyes.

“Erwin,” she says tonelessly. “You’re wanted inside.”

They pull away quickly, adjusting themselves as if they mean to pass off like they hadn’t had their tongues down one another’s throats just a second before. Erwin nods, and looks to Rivaille to follow, but Hange speaks first.

“I’d like to talk to you, Rivaille. If that's alright.”

Erwin looks worried by the request, but Rivaille shoos him off. He’s not afraid of Hange, and truth be told, after his return he hadn’t been able to take a moment to talk to her either. Erwin leaves them, and she walks inside the stall entirely.

“Don’t worry, Rivaille, I won’t tell the others. I figured this much would happen.”

It’s nice to hear her say his name again. Something about the way she said it, with enthusiasm, made him strangely happy.

“You wouldn’t be stupid enough to put Erwin in any danger. I’m sure they’d string him up. And I doubt he wants anyone to know how much he likes sticking it in my ass.”

She laughs weakly, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Rivaille nods, shoving his hands in his pockets with a sigh. She watches him, fiddling with her glasses the way she would when she would study something with more than just casual concentration.

“I wish it were easier for me to forgive you, Rivaille. I know I’m not supposed to know but Erwin doesn’t seem to blame you anymore. Or as much as he did before anyway.”

He looks up at her, lets his lips twitch once, twice. “What has he said to you?”

She laughs sadly, “He doesn’t have to say much. I’m more perceptive than you give me credit for.”

He shakes his head, “I think you’re very intelligent. Weird. But you’re smart.”

This time when she laughs it’s fuller, throatier. “He’s different now. Before, Pixis and I were always over making sure he took care of himself, but now he’s happier I think. Or at least…well…you know with him it can be hard to tell.” She pauses. “He did say that you’re involvement in everyone’s death was more complicated than we figured. He never really absolved you, but…”

Rivaille nods, “You know I cared about them Hange. I doubt I’d have to prove that to you.”

She nods, too, “You did so much for them.  Petra adored you. She really did. Idolized you, even.”

“Do you blame me for what happened to her?” he asks, looking up at her again. Her hair is tangled around the place where she has it tied back and set in place with pins. The glasses she wears are greasy, as always. It’s apparent that, she too, hadn’t changed.

“No,” she answers, shaking her head and looking at her feet. “I tried to even back when we first found out. But I know you wouldn’t have done anything to hurt her.”

“Was there ever anyone else, Hange?”

“I suppose I love my husband still. Enough to protect him. But she was the only person I’ll ever love that way.”

When they ride out Erwin has Rivaille on one side and Hange on the other. It feels right that way, and with the rest of their company trailing behind, Rivaille feels a wonderful confidence in their mission. He looks to Erwin every now and then, seeing his profile with set eyebrows and brave eyes.

The charges are to be set along the tracks, three smaller squads are set out lead by Eren, Shadis, and the last by a newcomer named Jean who Rivaille has taken a strange disliking to. Rico and Pixis remain at a command center while Erwin, Rivaille, and Hange make their way through their train’s cars to eliminate threats where they’re found.

Rivaille takes to the tops of the cars, climbing a ladder silently to shoot from the top if needed. He watches on either side, as Erwin and Hange move through soldiers as if they were straw dolls with the capability of defending themselves. Rivaille runs ahead, kicks in the window of the engine car and slices the conductor’s throat before climbing out the other side back to the top.

Erwin watches him, smirking.

“Come down now, Rivaille,” he says. “We have to set the explosives.”

The work is simple and methodical, and Erwin has given him enough training that their car goes off without a hitch. Hange cheers loudly when it explodes and laughs as the fire rises up through the trees. In the distance another explosion is heard. Even Erwin is smiling when Rivaille turns to him in the falling dark.

They spend their night waiting for the reports of success to filter through. Erwin’s crew returns to their makeshift headquarters in an inn northward of their attack point. Around midnight, Rivaille comes to his room, watching as Erwin dresses again after a bath.

“You’re putting on the same dirty clothes?”

He chuckles, kissing Rivaille’s forehead. “I didn’t pack for a holiday.” There’s food set out on the table, partially eaten. “Have you had supper yet?”

Rivaille moves to sit at the table, looking at the chilling meat and vegetables with disgust. “I’m glad I live in the city. This looks terrible.”

“It’s not so bad. I just have trouble eating when I’m anxious is all it was. I’d have liked to eat everything.” He moves the other chair around the table so he can sit beside Rivaille as he starts to eat the food with no less suspicion than he’d regarded it before.

“Are you nervous?” Rivaille asks, curling his lip as he chews on a piece of chicken. He sets his fork down after that.

“As I ought to be,” he affirms. His fingers idly pet at Rivaille’s hair, set back the windblown strands where they ought to be. “That’s not to say I’m not confident in my men.”

Rivaille closes his eyes and presses up into his hand in a feline way. “You know that Mikasa girl is an incredible fighter.”

Erwin laughs, closed-lipped, “I should think you’d like her. She reminds me of you sometimes. Eren’s incredible if not for his drive. Though the real talent is in their friend.”

He rolls his eyes at Erwin, “I know how much you fawn over that blonde one.”

“I don’t fawn over him, Rivaille,” he scowls. “Don’t exaggerate. But I did ask him to help me devise these plans. The mission was inspired, you can’t deny that.”

“Do you consider me part of your company now?” he asks with a small smile threatening at his lips.

“You know I do,” Erwin replies, kissing his temple. “More than that. I’d consider you my right hand in some ways. You’re a great fighter and a good shot. I only wish we’d had you sooner.”

He watches as Erwin runs the tips of his fingers over the inner-seam of Rivaille’s trousers. He keeps his touch lower on his thigh, but it still makes pressure build in Rivaille’s belly. With a soft sigh, he turns his face to Erwin’s, lets their breath mingle together between the proximity of their lips.

“Do you like to watch me fight?”

“I’d be lying through my teeth if I said it didn’t do something to me.”

Rivaille huffs out in the ghost of a laugh, “Always a fucking soldier aren’t you?”

Erwin doesn’t get the chance to reply before they have their door thrown open and guns pointed in their faces.

“ _Auf die knie_! _Jetzt sofort_!”

There’s two men, Nazi soldier by the looks of their uniforms, and their guns make acquaintance with space between Erwin and Rivaille’s eyebrows. They speak German, and Rivaille follows suit when Erwin gets to his knees, knowing then that it’s that they’re shouting at them to do. The shouts rattle on and Erwin averts his eyes as they focus their attentions on him.

Rivaille doesn’t hesitate to grab the barrel of his own gun and throw it towards the ceiling, kick his leg out to the side and send his foot into Erwin’s ribs to throw him out of the way. Erwin shouts in pain, and Rivaille feels his torso give in the split second his heel makes contact with it. The crack rattles through the room in harmony with the gunshots.

But Erwin is strong enough to not let the injury stop him from knocking his own soldier to his back. Rivaille takes care of the gunman who’s weapon he still has in hand, he yanks it forward with enough strength to send the man forward. His forehead cracks against Rivaille’s and it hurts him too, but not as much as it hurt the soldier falls to the ground.

The weapon he takes is a semi-automatic and he realizes that the second he sends rounds into the man at his feet. He turns the gun then to the soldier attacking Erwin.

“Move!” he shouts in English, and Erwin falls away just enough for Rivaille to land six shots into his attackers chest. He falls to the floor, and below, in the sudden silence, they can hear shouting.

“We need to get out of here,” Erwin says quickly. He moves with impressive speed, holding his ribs and he gets on his boots, gathers his things into his pack. Rivaille ignores what he’s brought along, resolving that it can be replaced for the sake of their escape.

There’s commotion on the other side of the door, the scuffle of feet and the muffled sounds of protest. Rivaille moves and puts his ear to the wood, listening and determining right away that it’s a woman.

Erwin winces as he leans to do the same.

“We need to find, Hange,” Rivaille comments. His thoughts are with Erwin’s injury, as much as they are with the worry that the woman he can hear being dragged down the stairs is actually her.

They take their escape out the back window as Erwin suggests. He ignores Rivaille’s protests about the climb down hurting him further, and absorbs the pain when he falls to his feet from the second story. They’re lucky that there’s a thatched roof below them to make their flee easier.

The horses are tied up in the thicket of woods behind the inn, and they try to make their way there in the hopes that others have managed to escape.

But the answer to their expectations is given when they spot Hange being escorted into one of the holding vehicles.

Rivaille’s feet start carrying him to a run before he even notices himself moving.

Erwin catches him by the collar, drags him into the shadows of the trees and covers his mouth with his hand. “Stop it Rivaille,” he hisses. “We can’t do anything for her now.”

Rico and Pixis appear with their communication devices ominously missing from their possession. Rivaille’s still struggling, only half recognizing their presence. Erwin lets him go after a moment and Rivaille can register that he’s having a conversation with Rico and Pixis.

“Rivaille will ride back to Paris,” Erwin says. “He’ll tell Loutrel what’s happened and we’ll get Hange out.”

“There’s no possible way I’ll make it before they kill her,” he whispers in disbelief. “Erwin what are you thinking? That’s a stupid plan.”

“It’s our only hope now, Rivaille. There’s an entire squad out there, we can’t possibly take them on with any hope of success.” He grabs hold of Rivaille’s forearm. “Go. Now. Before you waste any more time arguing.”

Rivaille scowls, feeling his breathing coming in heaves not strong enough to fill his lungs.

“That’s an order,” Erwin commands.

His horse whinnies like a shriek, when he pulls her roughly into a gallop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The German soldiers are shouting "On your knees! Right now"  
> \- This chapter is inspired by the Resistance's participation in the Allies invasion after Normandy. In the actual operations, Plan Vert (or Green as Rivaille translates) was the codename for the railway sabotage. There were several other operations.


	17. Point de Rupture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t belong to anyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last three posts all at once. I'll do all my sad gushy talking at the end. Also final edits when I do my final edit of the fic as a whole because I just want this OUT THERE.
> 
> Also there's this mix I made of the songs that inspired this story: http://infinitygauntlets.tumblr.com/post/93979068044/ailes-de-la-liberte-a-mix-of-songs-that-inspired

**-Juillet 1944-**

There had been a change in the tide of himself when he started to understand the hopelessness of the world. He could grasp the concept when he was eight, when he comprehended the circumstances of his life. That his father hated him and blamed his mother entirely for his existence, and even then without understanding reproduction, he knew that it was a foolish argument to be made.

There was no fight to be made against the status quo; life was the winning bet, the last word, the strongest force to be encountered. There was little else to be done other than to accept the trappings of fate, to watch your mother die of a sickness you couldn’t stop, to roll over on your stomach and be fed the vile cocks of men you didn’t know, to let the blows come one after another. What was important was that you stayed the course, and held your chin high, and kept your footing firm while fortune shook the plinth you perched yourself on.

He learned that in life you needed to survive, not live or fight for anything that wasn’t to keep you from losing your foothold. He believed that with every part of him. Until Erwin.

-

Pierre had failed to come through on Hange’s release.

The only word he could give was one of her status, on a train headed for a camp to the East. The verdict she was given was execution. She was a known Jew, and the reason they knew was because of the information Rivaille had given.

Erwin hadn’t asked if it was due to his own carelessness that Hange was to be killed – or was very likely already dead – and Rivaille was grateful for his silence or apparent lack of judgement. In truth, he’d had no idea what it would mean to share her true identity with Pierre, hers or Mike’s or Nana’s.

But Pierre had revealed everything about himself now, and the clearer Rivaille could see the more he wanted to be away from him. It wasn’t negligence or recklessness that made him desperate to see Erwin Smith any opportunity he could. It was something different altogether. When he was with Erwin he felt like the guilt wasn't enough to eat him alive.

“If only your men could see you now,” he says, looking at Erwin in the reflection of the vanity. This dressing room is much smaller than his at the Ailes, but more intimate and much more finely furnished. The club had given him employment at Pierre’s insistence and was frequented by more German speaking Nazis than any other demographic.

So of course it was foolish for Erwin to even be in his dressing room. If not for that, but for the constant threat of Pierre arriving unannounced. _It will only be a moment or two, Rivaille_. Erwin said. _How many people in the dressing rooms are going to recognize me?_ It was practically impossible to change, Erwin’s mind.

Rivaille lets him stay – for the moment he was promised – and puts him to work by telling him to lace up his corset at the back. Naturally, he was useless, as he’d dealt with undoing more laces than he was putting them up.

“I’d like you to slip your armband back on,” Rivaille teases. “I’d really like a photograph to show the company.”

Erwin yanks at the laces, knocking the breath out of Rivaille. There’s a sadistic little smirk on his face that makes Rivaille’s cheeks heat up under the rouge.

“Why don’t you put on yours, too, then?”

The formality of wearing the _Croix de Lorraine_ on their arms served as a symbol more than any indication of growing strength or official sanction. They’d been working with the Allies for much longer than the title “Free French Forces of the Interior” existed even in theory, but the title had been bestowed all the same. Along with their uniform armbands.

Rivaille rolls his eyes, “This is taking longer than a moment.”

Erwin abandons the work and lets his hands glide across the stitch patterned satin at his sides. His fingers play at the laces in the front. “Are you complaining?”

“No. You fucking asshole.”

Erwin hums in what should have been a laugh. Lips draw down the notches of Rivaille’s spine, and the particularly bony vertebrae earn the slow drag of teeth. He can’t stop the way he’s shaking now, spreading his legs apart without realizing in the hopes that Erwin will fit himself between them, grind his cock up against him while he wore these soft satiny things.

“You’re supposed to be getting me dressed,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to be any louder for fear of it cracking under the ministrations of a hot mouth down the center of his spine.

He can hear Erwin’s knees hit the floor one at a time, feel his breath drawing in and out of him and against the tiny hairs at his lower back. The two dimples there above his ass become fixtures for Erwin to press his thumbs into, while still being able to reach his fingertips around his hips in a firm grip.

He lets go of one and draws the panties he wears to one side, pressing a kiss against the indention of muscle near his hip. Kissing and kissing inward until Rivaille is holding his breath waiting to feel it.

The hot press of his lips against his hole makes Rivaille lurch forward reflexively, hissing out Erwin’s name with a scrape of high heels on unpolished wood.

Erwin’s voice is low.

“Am I not allowed to kiss you there?”

His thumbs draw inward and downward to spread Rivaille apart. It makes him feel exposed.

“It’s fucking disgusting.” It is, obviously.

Erwin leans in, and Rivaille can feel the exhale of breath against him before another press of freshly wetted lips. Erwin had licked his own mouth after the first kiss. The thought of his taste lingering on Erwin’s tongue makes him shiver.

He sighs out, leaning his cheek down on the vanity to help the strain of his twitching legs. “It’s your filthy mouth. Don’t expect me to kiss you now.”

Hot breath, again, on him as Erwin laughs at the comment. He leans in, kissing twice more, and letting his hands drift down Rivaille’s sides after finding that Rivaille’s new position left him exposed entirely.

The slick stripe of his tongue makes Rivaille moan so loudly he has to bury his mouth in his forearm. This isn’t the first time this has happened to him; perverts would sometime _only_ ask to do this to him. He’d let them, finding it more nauseating than anything else. This, what Erwin was doing, was entirely the opposite.

“Before you said you didn’t even fuck other men,” Rivaille pants. “Now you’re wanting to sick your nose in my ass like a-”

Erwin chuckles, pressing his thumb up against the westness he’s created and forcing Rivaille to stop short. “I don’t find any part of you disgusting.”

His tongue replaces his thumb and presses it against the muscle to test it’s give. Rivaille’s hips cant against it. “Christ…”

Erwin’s fingers slip down to tease at the tops of Rivaille’s stockings. They dip underneath, greedy, and pull him back so his ass is even further out. Slowly, they roll down the tops so Erwin can grip and hold his thighs, pressing bruises into them with the force of his fingertips.

“You taste so good, Rivaille,” he mumbles. The sounds Rivaille makes, the way he fogs up the glass of the mirror with his breaths, the way Erwin makes the most obscene noises with his mouth, not bothering to mask the wet slide of skin on skin, the smack of lips. It makes Rivaille’s legs shake, makes his cock hard and heavy, leaking precome into the panties he still has on for somereason.

Somehow, Erwin notices the ache in his cock, and blessedly reaches around to hold it in the circle of his hand. He pumps slowly.

“I...want you to fuck me,” Rivaille says, sounding more desperate than he realizes. His hips are moving, fucking into Erwin’s hand and letting Erwin’s tongue open him.

“We don’t have time.”

Rivaille whines, gripping Erwin’s forearm to make him stroke faster, harder so he gets down to the base and squeezes his hand back up until he reaches the tip.

Everything Erwin does to him makes him forget. There’s a peace him, weightless and lacking in control that Erwin takes on. He doesn’t strip it from him the way Pierre does. He holds it like a burden, protects it until Rivaille is ready to take it on again.

He comes so hard that it shoots up and stains the fine fabric of the corset, lands on the vanity and at his feet on the floor. Erwin is breathing heavily against his hole, making him flinch from being too overwrought to handle the added stimulation.

He dimly notices Erwin come to stand over him again, and instead trains his attention of steadying himself enough to take his weight off the table. A large hand comes to his hair, lips press at his ear.

“Just stay there. I’ll try to do up the laces.”

Rivaille shakes his head, “I’ve got come on it now. I can’t wear it.” He groans. “You stupid bastard you made me come on it. Do you know how much this cost?”

Another kiss at his jaw. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Rivaille scoffs, trying to squirm out from under him as he finds his strength again. “Like hell you will. You haven’t got any money.”

Erwin lets him free by leaning back and away from him, pulling the laces open in one clean movement so the corset slips away from him entirely and falls to the floor. Finally unrestricted, Rivaille stands up straight and turns back to look at him. “Just go you idiot.”

Of course he stays to watch Rivaille redress himself. This time the laces are in the front of the bodice to make it simpler to do up himself. Erwin stares, as he often did, and Rivaille ignores him for the most part.

“Rivaille,” he says when he’s dressed again. Even in these heels he’s so much taller than Rivaille is. His hands come down, cup Rivaille’s cheeks, and he kisses him on the mouth softly. And Rivaille doesn’t mind that his lips are covered with the taste of him.

As they step back from one another, eyes still locked with nowhere else they’d rather be focused, the door opens.

“Erwin?” says Pierre.

Rivaille tries his best not to appear suspicious, but Pierre has an expression dark enough to have Rivaille locating his knife on the vanity.

“It’s good to see you, Pierre,” Erwin replies solidly. “I was just accompanying Rivaille to his show for the evening. We had a meeting earlier you see, and we don’t allow any of our company to travel on their own.”

Pierre merely raises an eyebrow. “It’s not as if Rivaille needs protecting. He’d have more Germans scrambling for his safety than I would.”

He looks to Rivaille, studying him from toe to crown.

“We both know that isn’t true,” Rivaille says quietly. He leans back against the vanity and sighs. The knife is within reach this way.

Erwin understands, by way of Rivaille’s body language, that it’s time to make his exit. He does, with a muttered goodbye and a militaristic nod of his head. Pierre is too busy glaring at Rivaille to acknowledge him going.

As he leaves, Erwin catches Rivaille’s eyes, but Rivaille shuts the door without giving any indication of the fear he’s feeling deep down in the pit of himself. He ignores it well enough, or at the very least, he’s numb to it as he is to most things.

Pierre grabs hold of his arm almost immediately after the two of them are left alone.

“It reeks of sex in here.”

Rivaille scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re being crazy again.”

His grip gets harder, and Rivaille has to bite on his tongue to keep from making a noise at the pain.

“Don’t call me crazy, Rivaille. You know I hate that.”

He pulls away by slamming the heel of his palm into Pierre’s chest and yanking his arm away. Pierre looks surprised by the counter, and for a moment that shock is the only thing on his face. But anger clouds quickly and Rivaille hates the way fear glances his insides.

“I’m not having this conversation again,” he says quickly. “I need to wait on the wings until I go on.” He faces away from Pierre, still capable of seeing him in the vanity and close enough to his gun that he can use it.

“Rivaille.” Pierre sounds hurt, sad.

“What?” He asks, not turning back around.

“I don’t understand what’s happening between us. This doesn’t feel right.”

Rivaille can feel him at his back, shudders at the touch of fingertips on the back of his arms – where Pierre knows he’s ticklish. The long curls of his wig are brushed aside and lips press slow and soft at the line of his natural hair.

“I’m sorry,” Pierre whispers. “I’m so frightfully attached to you, Rivaille. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t by my side.”

Rivaille nods, because he can do little else.

“But I swear to you,” Pierre continues. “If that Erwin thinks he can have you, I’ll cut out his heart.” His hands make crushing manacles around the upper parts of his arms. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine and you always will be.”

“I don’t _belong_ to anyone.”

And immediately Rivaille knows it was the wrong thing to say.

Pierre lets go and steps back, stares at Rivaille incredulously as if he’s been smacked in the face. “So you do love him then?”

Rivaille finally turns around to face him and is calm outwardly to what is sure to plummet into a fight. “I never said that. Don’t you dare put words in my mouth, Pierre.”

“Then what am I supposed to think. You never minded me saying you were mine before.”

Something boils in him.

“Because before it never felt like I truly did. I’m not a fucking object, Pierre.”

He leaves, as quickly as he can to avoid the conversation. Pierre lunges for him, but he avoids it, and walks leisurely to the side stage where no doubt the stage hands will stop Pierre from following. Yet Rivaille’s skin is still crawling, and his hands are shaking just slightly as he slips on his long gloves for the show.

Before he goes on he asks for one of the stage hands to call a cab for him before he’s done. Just after he performs he rushes out, not bothering with any clothes, but takes a jacket from the side stage to cover himself up. The gun in his dressing room is too risky too retrieve, and he feels almost foolish now thinking he might need it against Peirre. He knows Pierre would never hurt him. He knows.

Erwin’s flat feels like home now, and when he enters he finds Erwin sleeping already, despite it still being rather early in the night. He pauses in the mirror, to take out his wig and wipe of his lip stick.

“Oh no, don’t take that off just yet,” he hears Erwin mumble from the bed. His eyes are hardly even open and his smile is lazy and half-formed.

“I’ll only get it all over the place when I go to sleep. It’ll be a mess.”

“You plan on sleeping?” Erwin asks with a chuckle.

Rivaille undresses himself entirely and goes to him. Erwin simly watches, and accommodates his presence in bed by lifting his arm so he can deposit himself against his body. Which he does of course, attaches himself to Erwin and lets his arms swallow him, his legs tangle him in until he doesn’t think he could separate himself if he wanted to.

“You should see me less,” says Erwin near silently. “If you’re not planning on leaving him, which I understand why you would have trouble doing it, I think it would be the logical thing to do.”

Rivaille tense, shoves at Erwin slightly so he can look up and meet his eyes. He scowls, “How could you suggest that? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Erwin matches his expression, “I’m only trying to make things more bearable for you. What did I say?”

“I’m not planning on leaving him, but it isn’t like I have trouble doing it. I just…can’t.”

“That’s only a small difference in word choice, Rivaille. There’s no need for you to get so upset with me. I just want you to help you.” He looks hurt. Honestly, hurt, but trying his best to hide that subtle crease in his blonde eyebrows, the widening of his blue eyes.

“I want you to shut up about it. It’s complicated and it’s…” he sighs, rolling out of Erwin’s arms. He expects to grasped and held down, but Erwin lets him go.

“I’m just trying to understand, Rivaille.”

Rivaille settles himself against one of the pillows, staring up at the ceiling with arms crossed languidly over his chest. Erwin props himself up on one arm beside him, looking down at him expectantly. Naturally, he doesn’t want to talk about his past. He doesn’t want to talk about himself in any respect.

“He wasn’t always like this,” he says, not looking to Erwin.

“How was he?”

“Funny. Clever. Good to me. He’s always been thicker and tougher than I ever looked, but he wasn’t as interested in protecting me as he was in teaching me how to protect myself. I liked that about him.”

Rivaille could remember how he’d looked all those years back. When he was standing over him with his hair unslicked and too long, his eyes dark like coal and lips and face full like he actually had food to eat.

Erwin is quiet. He waits for Rivaille to continue at his own speed.

“When he found me that day I was beaten within an inch of my life, because the bastard who paid me thought he could do whatever the hell he wanted. When I said no he nearly killed me. Pierre saved my life and when he found out I didn’t have any place to live he took me home and cleaned me up. He let me stay with him until I healed and then when I was alright he asked me if I wanted to stay with him for good.

“He was my family. Isabel and Farlan came along and they were family, too. He and I fucked, yes, but the relationship was deeper than lovers. We were brothers in a way, and I took care of him just as much as he took care of me. I owed him my life, but it didn’t feel that way. I _wanted_ to make it up to him, whether I had to or not.”

He allows for Erwin to settle a hand onto his forearm and idly stroke his thumb back and forth over the prominent bones. His expression hadn’t changed, but he asks with gentleness, “What changed in him?”

“When we had done a fair amount of robberies we had gained notice. The occupation brought the Nazi’s with a far more capable justice system and by that point Pierre had become public enemy number one. They gave him an ultimatum; either join the cause or die.  Obviously, the weasel chose the first one. I would have, too, I think.”

He knows he sounds disgusted with himself; the tone is on his voice. Erwin doesn’t comment on the choice, or the inflection.

“And he took the job seriously.”

Rivaille nods, “He…I suppose he got power hungry. He’d had power before, but nothing like this. He doesn’t have any rules to follow, because he makes them. It's not about what side he's on as long as he's on the one that wins. He's always been that way, but now it's worse. I knew how bad it had gotten when Isabel was killed. He didn’t even seem to care.”

They’re both silent.

“And Farlan?”

“I was in the next room when I heard the gunshot fire. He shot him right in the head. I saw the body.”

“Why did you help him?” Erwin asks. He slides his fingers downwards to hold Rivaille’s hand, but Rivaille doesn’t oblige.

“He promised me if I helped nobody would get hurt. He said he’d protect everyone at the Ailes. Apart from you. You were the target. I did as I was told, but I saw how he’d let the others die. I knew he already wanted you dead. So I lied, I withheld information that he wanted. I tried to protect everyone. You. And I couldn’t.” He says with finality. Two years and he’d still have dreams of Isabel shrieking on the table. Two years and there was Farlan with a hole between his eyes big enough for Rivaille to see through. Two years and there was a Petra, the others, all of them with broken mangled bodies begging him for answers. Now Hange joined the chorus.

Erwin must see the changing emotions on his face, because he reaches out and pulls Rivaille close without seeking permission. This time Rivaille does not hesitate to fall into it, and when he does he has himself fitted along Erwin’s from where the contour molds around him.

“Does he scare you?”

“No,” Rivaille lies. “But I’m not willing to take the risk it would be to leave him.”

Erwin knows what could happen without Rivaille having to say. He has leverage, Rivaille’s Jewish ancestry, his work with the Resistance, his criminal record. Pierre had never taken a blow to his ego lightly, and now with an ego so large the blow would be monumental. He would never hurt him, Rivaille knows. Yet, he finds himself unsure.

The kisses fall like snowflakes on his cheeks. Soft, sporadic, and Erwin holds him close under the dusting of his lips. He sighs, making Rivaille’s still painted eyelashes flutter.

“Stop coming to see me so often, Rivaille.”

It’s like claws sunk so deep into his skin they tear at him from the inside.

“You don’t get to tell me what I can and cannot do, Erwin.”

“Then I’m helping you escape the city,” he demands. Rivaille looks up over the line of his jaw where his eyes are down cast on his face.

“And leave you here? Pierre would kill you, he’d blame you. And how the fuck would I know you were safe?”

“You went two years without ever speaking to me.”

“But at least I knew you weren’t dead!” he growls. He’s angry now, and he’s letting it show. “I’m not running away. I’m staying here and I’m fighting by your side.”

Erwin furrows his thick brows, leans back enough to see Rivaille clearly. “Why does it matter that you fight?”

“Because,” he says with absolute surety. “I have debts to repay.”

He wasn’t going to deny his guilt, that his actions were responsible for the deaths of the people he cared for. He couldn't atone, not really. They’d paid for their beliefs in blood, the same blood on Rivaille hands. All he could hope to do now was to finish their work.

“We’re going to win this war,” he says to Erwin. “Even if I have to die. I’m staying and fighting until we win."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Point de rupture means breaking point


	18. L'insurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gun pointed directly towards Erwin is steady, the hole of the barrel less daunting than triggering of a part of Rivaille he was unaware of until that moment in time.

**\- Août 1944 –**

The uprising starts a six days prior on the nineteenth. The interior forces began an uprising, and Rivaille had been in the skirmish since its beginning.

He had hardly seen Erwin before the fighting began.

They’d decided, in the end, that Erwin was right. That their relationship was too much of a risk for the two of them, and that Rivaille ought to stay away as much as he could hope to. Meetings were a non-opportunity as Pierre was attending more than he had before, and Pierre was almost always at his performances. Instead, they’d met in the early mornings, in stolen moments, with “chance” encounters at cafes and pubs. Kisses in the alleyway and touches under the tables.

Erwin had impressive ability to hide his emotions, as did Rivaille. Now, with Pierre so vigilant, he was certain that he no longer suspected anything between the two. They had successfully calmed his paranoia, but it meant Rivaille was forced to pretend to love him still. Again, something he could manage, but not without a great deal of reluctance. He’d fucked by men he hated before. This was something he could hardly stomach.

But now he and Erwin were together. Incapable of making love, showing affection, though Rivaille hardly minded. It felt right to fight at his side, and more so to fall under his command. It was a strange complacency, addled with joy, and devoid of where the shame should be to let another man direct your actions. He was all too willing to follow Erwin’s instruction, and more so to command his own small group of soldiers.

The lot of them were situated near the Seine, nestled behind a barricade assaulted with bullet holes and blood stains. They’d lost only two men, both to snipers. Rivaille has a gun on his back in desperate need of ammunition. The situation was beyond dire.

“Move faster,” he orders, standing over the hunched figure of Jean Kirstein and Armin Arlert – two of his soldiers.

“Come in, Brezenska,” Armin says, for nearly the hundredth time. The radio had been hit by a bullet. A freak accident, but one that left him and seven brats stranded without a tie to command.

“ _Brez – shhhhhhhhh – ka.”_

The radio was broken. That was certain.

“It’s not safe for us to move,” Jean thinks aloud. “But we’re useless without command.”

“We’re not useless,” Rivaille says, offended. “I’m more than capable of keeping all of us alive as long as you stop thinking you’re in charge, Kirstein.”

Jean looks down, and then glares at Eren who’s trying to hide his smirk as he reloads his rifle.

“Mikasa,” Rivaille says, looking at her. “You and I will take to the roofs, and take down the snipers we find.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The rest of you stay down here and distract them. Don’t get caught. Or killed. I have every confidence you won’t.”

Armin still works with the radio. He sighs, and runs his fingers through his too shaggy, boyish cut. “Brezenska. Come in. This is Arlert.”

“ _Arlert. This is Brezenska. What’s your status_?”

Rivaille drops to his knees and motions for Armin to give him the receiver. He holds it to his mouth, speaking as slowly and clearly as he can manage.

“Brezenska this is Rivaille. There’s snipers. Mikasa and I are going to try to take them out, but there’s a chance we’ll need help.”

He’s killed before, he’s been in fights with over twenty-five men rushing one another all at the same time. But war was different. It slid under your skin like poison, numbing you and uncaging all the parts you kept locked away. Fear curled in him, attaching itself to the confidence. Two of his own already dead. He could feel the fury in him, and there was nothing he wanted more that to slice the throats of the men responsible.

“ _Rivaille_?”

It was Erwin.

“Erwin. Listen to me. I don’t know how many snipers there are, but based on the trajectory of the bullets Armin thinks he has a good idea of their location. We’re going to use his guesses to find them and kill them.”

“ _Alright, Rivaille_.”

“What of your men?”

“Pierre is here. He’s abandoned the Carlingue. I’ve sent him off with recon, but I thought you ought to know.”

The die was cast.

“Send a group of men our way. We’re running low on ammunition and we need medical supplies.”

“ _Did you hear what I said_?”

“We need ammunition. Pay attention to what the fuck I’m saying.”

A pause. Rivaille’s men are all staring, he can feel their eyes, but he ignores them. A rendezvous point it set, and Erwin doesn’t bring up Pierre again.

Rivaille knew Pierre well enough to know that there was no absolutism in him. If could have his entire body on one side of the river and his foot still on the other side. It didn’t make sense for him to abandon his post. It made no sense to him at all. It felt wrong.

“Erwin?” he asks, before leaving the radio.

“ _Yes, Rivaille_. _I’m here._ ”

“Don’t trust him.”

Erwin knows who he means, of course. “ _I know_.”

Mikasa manages to break into a small apartment building at their right, Rivaille took the one across from it.

She never spoke much, and in a strange way she reminded Rivaille of himself. Perhaps a bit more outwardly protective than he was, but he could sense a camaraderie between the two that went undiscussed by either party.

Not to mention her prowess with a knife was at a level only comparable to Rivaille’s.

He climbs the stairs, finding a the roof access blocked, but easily bypassed by the force of his weight against the aging wood. The roof is empty, and from across the way he could see Mikasa’s shadow slide behind the dormers in the afternoon sun.

He moved like a phantom across the rooftops. Jumping, landing silently, slipping in and out of sight as he found his targets. None had the time to scream. He’s jump above their backs, land with a knee against the backs of their lungs so the wind would be knocked away. Then he’d grab them by the back of the hair and slide his blade across their throat with the technique Erwin had taught him. It was efficient, but bloody, and he was covered by the time he reached the end of the avenue.

From this height he could see down on to the streets where the the gun shots echoed into the sky. The sounds only shattered closer and closer, like thunderclaps in a storm rushing in. He could see his comrades as they turned the corner, pushing back the Nazi forces they encountered by barreling in, guns lit.

Erwin is there. His is hair unkempt with sweat and effort and a weeks’ worth of nights sleeping on the streets. He had blood on his lip Rivaille was itching to wipe away so he could kiss him home and feel security that he was safe.

Mikasa arrives on the opposite side of the street, clearly successful. The two make eye contact, nod, then make their way back down from their respective buildings.

He takes his men to Erwin and ambushes what remains of the German forces from the rear. With them trapped between, his soldiers unload the last of their ammunition on them, putting holes in their bodies with bullets. More corpses in the streets, more blood in the gutter. They’re all accustomed to it now.

Erwin steps forward, gives the order for the men to replenish themselves, and then goes to Rivaille. Who is looking down now, cleaning off his hands and face with a kerchief from his pocket. He glances up at Erwin, knowing they can’t kiss or show affection in front of his soldiers.

“You’re alright then, Rivaille?”

He nods. “Why have you brought all of command?”

Erwin looks back, watching Rico replace the wiring in Armin’s radio, Pixis distribute the ammo to the younger soldiers. “We had to. The Allies wanted us elsewhere.”

Rivaille’s eyebrows raise practically to his hairline, “The Allies?”

They’d arrived that day, that moment. There had never been a moment where the war’s end had been in sight, and now with it on the horizon Rivaille wasn’t sure he could put a name to the feeling that swelled in him.

“You mean they’ve invaded.”

“If we keep this up, we could have the Nazis out of Paris within the week.”

And then it suddenly occurred to Rivaille just why Pierre had run away. A last effort to secure his safety. But Rivaille is less concerned with him now, less aware of him, less weighted by him. He looks at Erwin, doesn’t nod or smile, but he knows Erwin understands. With Pierre out of power there was nothing to hold them back, with the war over in Paris they could leave him behind entirely.

“Where do they want us?” he asks, though he’s already started to walk along with the ranks.

“Near Montemarte. There are supplies for us there and they’ve asked for us to defend their operations. I’ll show you.”

They make command in the courtyard of what once might The younger soldiers clear the building and Rivaille charges some of this own to take a position on the roof. The new supplies include a long distance rifle which Mikasa shows talent for handling.

Meetings take place until near dawn and Rivaille refuses to leave Erwin during them. They stand inside, Erwin’s beloved maps strewn over a table and Rivaille standing beside him as he draws on the worn papers with a red wax stick. His conversation is lacking, as he’s entirely absorbed in marking down the information relayed to him through the Allies. Rivaille doesn’t mind. He watches him with the slight furrow of his thick brow, and sky blue eyes flicking back and forth over his own work.

So Rivaille takes up residence on the table, sitting with one foot under him and the other dangling off the table. There’s silence for a long time, and Rivaille smokes a cigarette from the stock he’s kept safe in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Finally Erwin asks for one, smiling faintly. Rivaille gives him one, lights it with his own.

“Are you finished with all of that?”

Erwin looks to his maps, settling a hand near Rivaille’s hip on the table. “For now. We’ll be in a quite the fray soon I think.” His face softens slightly, and he reaches out to curl a hand around Rivaille’s calf that hangs off the edge. “That means more fighting for you. And for me.”

Rivaille quirks an eyebrow, “Are you suggesting that I am too tired to keep fighting?”

“No,” Erwin laughs. “Clearly you’re not.”

He finds his space invaded very quickly. Erwin cups his cheek, kisses the corner of his mouth, then his lips with as much care to make Rivaille feel fragile in his hands. He returns the kiss by opening his mouth and letting Erwin lick inside. He extinguishes his own cigarette, then kills Erwin’s for him so their hands can be free to hold.

“We should spend this time sleeping while we have the chance,” Erwin reasons. His breath his hot and suffocating.

Rivaille is reluctant to let go.

“Shut up,” he says. He takes fistfuls of Erwin’s filthy shirt.

Erwin simply grins, leans back down to kiss him again. Levi takes greedy tastes of him and pulls at his shirt so Erwin will crowd his space. They’re both breathless, and panting against each other’s teeth until they start to close down on raw lips. Rivaille arches his back, encouraging Erwin to strip off the shirt he desperately wants taken off.

“Rivaille…” he whispers. His mouth falls away from Rivaille’s, much to his disappointment. Their foreheads rest together, and Erwin has his eyes steady on his. He’s too close to see except for the small blur of color and shape that makes up his image. Rivaille shifts his eyes to and fro to focus them.

“Why did you stop?” he asks, not veiling his annoyance.

“We need to rest. We won’t have a chance for who knows how long.”

Erwin’s fingers still idle at his waist, pressing against the bruises he’d left behind a week or so prior. Rivaille sighs, not expecting it to escape so shakily from his already parted lips.

“I’m happy that you’re safe,” Erwin says eventually.

“How could you think I wouldn’t be? Give me some credit.”

“I ought to. I’d be stupid to think you couldn’t.” His eyes are still on Rivaille’s the best they can be and Rivaille looks back at them. “I’m only upset I didn’t have you on my side sooner.”

Rivaille laughs dryly, “Is that all you can think about right now? Fighting?”

“Yes. I fight just as much for you too now. You know that don’t you?”

Rivaille looks down finally, hoping that Erwin won’t see the color that threatens under the skin of his cheeks. A large hand comes to one of them and fills what space is left between their faces, just inches apart.

“I love you, Rivaille.”

He pushes into his space again, putting a small kiss to Rivaille’s thickened bottom lip. Rivaille kisses back, gently, following Erwin’s lead. His eyes drift shut of their own doing and Erwin falls away from him.

“I love you,” he whispers back.

But when he opens his eyes again Erwin is not just away from his space, he stares over him with a glare so chilling it turns the room cold despite the muggy heat drifting in.

When Rivaille turns back to see Pierre standing in the doorway he feels something not as much fear as it is fury. The gun pointed directly towards Erwin is steady, the hole of the barrel less daunting than triggering of a part of Rivaille he was unaware of until that moment in time.

“You liar,” he hears, jutting from Pierre’s mouth like barbs and digging, digging deep in him. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t cry or panic at the sting, but lets them pull him in and out and towards Pierre with speed unparalleled to anyone Erwin has ever seen before - just as he had said, the fastest, the sharpest.

He moves in one fluid motion across the table and kicks his legs out straight so they land hard into Pierre’s chest. The squeeze of the trigger happens slowly for him, the bullet moving through the thickness of air and into the ceiling above. Not Erwin.

Rivaille re-positions himself from the floor to straddle Pierre’s chest, pinning his arms with knees he know will protest the abuse later. Of course, it would be simple for Pierre to throw him off if it weren’t for the knife pressed to his neck.

Dark brown eyes show full circled through the wideness of his lids. He pants up at Rivaille, and squirming and only finding that the knife will not move and only cut the sensitive skin protecting his throat. Rivaille holds it firm. He won’t let go.

“Rivaille?” Pierre near whispers.

Rivaille refuses to answer.

“Rivvy? Rivvy, please.”

“Shut up.”

“Rivvy please don’t kill me. Please. You love me. I...I love you.”

There are tears making a sheen over those dark brown eyes. Rivaille could only remember one time before, when Pierre had cried. He had held him, pet his hair while he clung to Rivaille’s tiny frame. He couldn’t remember now what had made him weep so openly, all Rivaille could remember was the need to hold him close. Protect him.

“Rivvy. Look at me. Please. Please don’t kill me.”

Suddenly Erwin’s voice among the deafening din that fills Rivaille’s ears.

“Rivaille,” he says. “Rivaille.”

He understand what the tone means. He knows it himself. Press down just enough, pull to one side and keep your blade steady as you can until you feel it all give - the tendons, the skin, the muscle, the veins - under your strength. He should want to do this. He should feel the need to do this.

“Rivvy..”

His hands are shaking and he wants them to still. He curses them, feels the rage boil over again, but instead of it burning the man under his weight it sears him from the inside out.

His knees his the ground with painful force when Pierre pulls his arms free. Rivaille tries to move before the fist hits his face, but it makes it’s landing right at his temple and knocks the vision out from his eyes.

He feels himself land on the floor hard. Feels the pain in his cheek and jaw. Feels his fingers open up around the knife’s handle until it slips away. He can’t see Erwin, he can’t hear him. He can only hear the thud of his heart as it slows to normalcy in the aftermath of adrenaline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> l'insurrection means the uprising


	19. Liberté

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fight, and they fight, and there’s no doubt they’re close to defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive, massive thank you to everyone involved in getting this story to see the light of day. To my girlfriend, who revived the message about this story in her askbox sometime in late January, who talked me through the plot as I was snowed in later that week, and who has, throughout this process, dealt with me being ridiculous and neurotic. To all those I've shared the story with, in all its incarnations, that will never be put down in words (yes, especially THAT one). To those of you who have sent me kind words of appreciation and encouragement, because without those words these chapters would truly not have been posted. To you who have promoted this silly little story, told your friends to read it, and given praise to it (much to my surprise). To everyone, and of course to the men and women who were the inspiration for this story and city they freed.

The bullets fall like rain.

Rivaille comes to and with Erwin standing above him unharmed; he’s lost to the sound of his voice. They’re breathless for a moment, and silent, but hold onto each other’s forearms until steadiness finds their feet again.

Before they have their chance to speak, the gunshots ring out like an oncoming storm. And the bullets fall like rain.

They both find their weapons, and Rivaille stumbles as he gets to his feet with the rush of blood to his head dragging back down. He pushes through, not allowing for Erwin to think him weak. Because he was. He truly was.

The two make it out to the courtyard where the fight has already begun. Men are already felled on the cobble stones, their bodies providing little other than obstacles for those that remain. Rivaille sees his small group of men, the younger men and women he’d been charged with, fighting back. Some use knives, some guns.

He counts them off one by one, taking account of every single soul until he’s certain they’re all safe.

He runs, head first and shooting, into the fray. The first soldier he comes across has blond curls under his helmet and meaty hands holding gun. Rivaille doesn’t hold back, he sprays bullets at his knees until they send him collapsing onto the ground. His knife comes unsheathed in a smooth flick of the hand, a long curve of the arm, and falls buried into his throat until Rivaille yanks it back to his chest.

“Loutrel!” he hears. “Loutrel sent them!”

They fall like animals and blood coats his hands. He wants to pause and clean them, but the shots keep coming and coming. He takes two at once, sending a bullet through the brain of one into the temple of the other. He can see their crackled skulls and folded in skin at his feet when Erwin finally calls his name and forces him back to reality with a hand on his collar.

“Listen to me, Rivaille!” His voice is booming. “We’re retreating. Now.”

He realizes around him there are people running, and Nazis appearing like sand through a sieve in the courtyard ahead. Erwin pulls him, hard enough to throw his balance off, until he follows him into the building. There’s no time to take the weapons that remain, the ammunition, the maps or radios. There’s no time to stop and pick up the fallen bodies. There’s not a moment to breathe out the metal tinged scent of blood and bullet fire.

And it’s all his fault.

They run through the streets to the sounds of Nazi guns trailing them like fanfare.

“I thought Loutrel was on our side?!” Jean shouts. “Why is he sending the Nazis after us?!”

Eren looks at Erwin, “He was a spy this whole time! Just like we thought!”

 The question is suspended in the air. Rivaille keeps his eyes ahead when he speaks, “If you for a second think I’m not on your side I can tell you now you’re fucking crazy.”

Erwin is silent to the question, but willing to give a command to the small group of men behind him. “We’re not far from the Ailes. It’s the only place where we can hide until we can regroup.”

The courtyard is still empty, still over grown with weeds and canopied by long dead strings of lights. The door is bolted shut, and he stands in front of it as they force it open. Rivaille’s skin crawls, because he knows they should not be there.

“I didn’t see his body,” Erwin says finally. “He wasn’t with them. Which means he’s still out there.”

Inside of the building it’s dark and dusty. There’s still that smell of spilt alcohol and cigarettes, Nana’s perfume and Hange’s cigars. Rivaille closes his eyes, and the right one stings with the pain of the hit Pierre had landed.

“He’s going to come for us. This is a fucking obvious place to go.”

Around them the soldiers fall into abandoned chairs, perch on tables where they can fit. What remained of command and of Rivaille’s squad were the only people in the club. Rivaille feels like a ghost inside, haunting a place he can’t let go. He stares at the stage.

“I should have killed him, Erwin. If I would have killed him then I would have stopped the Nazis from finding us.” He keeps his voice as level as he can manages, but his fists are balled at his sides. The blood is dried around the rims of his fingernails just like Erwin’s always used to be.

Erwin merely puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I hesitated and now more people are dead because of me. I called you a coward, but I’m the fucking coward. I don’t have a spine. If I would have stood up to him years ago, when I first noticed how dangerous he was…” he hisses, slamming his fist down on the table. “Goddammit.”

“I hesitated when I should have killed you,” Erwin murmurs. “I couldn’t do it and I hated myself for it. But I was killing somebody I loved. You being incapable of killing a person you love says everything about the person you are.”

“The person I am helped a man who killed other people I cared about.”

“Stop it, Rivaille.” Erwin grabs him by both shoulders, looking at him straight in the eye. “Ask yourself, are you going to let him kill any more of the people you care for?”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes only leave Erwin’s to look at what’s left of his comrades.

“Commander,” a voice interrupts. Armin Arlert stands with a radio still attached to his back and a small notebook in his hands. He’s shaking, and the writing on the pages is scribbled and illegible. “I’ve taken stock of what’s left. Pixis has sustained an injury and collectively we have far too little ammunition for a defensive. The average of the remaining men only have one firearm and one knife to their person. We have no grenades or long range pistols. The radio I have is still non-functional and Rico’s was left behind at the base.”

Erwin lets his hands drop from Rivaille’s shoulders. “We won’t have enough ammo to survive an attack.”

Rivaille cuts in, “If he’s still out there, Erwin, he’ll come looking here. He won’t come alone.”

Armin looks between them, “Sir, if…I could suggest something?”

Erwin nods to him and Armin takes a breath before speaking.

“The courtyard opens to a thin alleyway which will thin the line of soldiers. At most it seems like their squads are under thirty men, which means about two soldiers reaching the front gate at a time If we barricade the area with what’s left of the furniture we could create blockade. And from behind that we can place our best shots, and behind them support from who remains.”

Eren appears at Armin’s side suddenly, “Thirty men we need to kill.”

The plan is inspired, and Erwin seems to agree.

“We could lure him here,” Rivaille thinks aloud. “Take out the Nazis, and hope he’s one of them. He’ll come here eventually. We can wait it out until he does.”

Soon the Ailes is truly empty, and what remains of her insides is placed out in the archway of the courtyard. The tables are made from heavy wood and they are stacked back to back with chairs and what vanities and shelves that are still tucked away in the dressing rooms.

There are two lines, the first dotted with Mikasa, Eren, Jean, Erwin, Levi, and Rico. The second line is made up of Sasha, Armin, Pixis, Shadis, and the other men and women who still follow.

Above them the sun reaches midafternoon with relentless heat. It burns their necks and backs, makes them sweat. Rivaille meticulously cleans his hands and dabs his sweat soaked hair with his kerchief. Erwin is stoic as ever, staring ahead at the alley.

They’re side by side at the front line, holding gun not intended for them. They have no helmets or armor the way the real soldiers do. Their supplies are minimal, the weapons subpar. But Rivaille holds onto his stolen rifle as if he were any lionhearted soldier.

The boots announce their approach just as Rivaille glances at his wristwatch. Three o’clock even. And the sounds of the parade tell the tale of more than thirty simple soldiers.

“Armin,” he hears behind him. “Armin calm down.”

“It sounds like there are so many…”

Beside Rivaille, Mikasa tightens the grip on her rifle, Eren looks down the barrel. He raises his own, holds it at his shoulder like a reassuring touch. The hammer, the trigger, the slow breath. Then fire.

The first line of men don’t’ expect to see the barricade and fall quickly to the blows. Rivaille hits one, knocking his shoulder with Eren’s twin hit to his cheek. The next line is more cautious, and soon fire is returned. The bullets splinter the wood of the table and they have to dodge the ricocheting pieces as they flurry.

“Keep firing!” Erwin shouts. “Don’t stop for anything!”

Round after round until the Nazis pile up in the alley like makeshift sandbags for those still alive to hide behind. But the attack doesn’t stop, and they pour in like water through a broken damn until the line is pushed so fast and so far that they can’t keep up.

“I can’t reload fast enough!” Jean complains. He puts his rifle back up, hits a man straight in the chest when he starts to get to close. His eyes are wide as he watches him fall and drape over the barricade, bleeding onto their side.

“We need to push back!”

Erwin’s voice comes clear, “No! Stand your ground.”

But it’s fruitless.

It only takes one misfire for one German to make it over the line. He lands hard, kicking Eren hard in the face. Armin and Mikasa shriek out his name at the same time, and it harmonizes with the sound of a Nazi rifle firing into the second line of defense.

Rivaille gets to his feet, kicking out the legs of the soldier with a smooth slide of his own. He aims his gun down, shoots him in the throat. When he looks up again, three more have made it across.

The barricades are abandoned for the onslaught of Nazis. They burst through, light up the courtyard with firing bullets, breaking glass, flaking brick. They’re trapped, just as Rivaille had said that day to Pierre.

 _We’re cornered in here_.

He can see Erwin fighting, with a grace impressive for a man his stature. He takes on two at once, as Rivaille had been, hand to hand with one knife and one pistol. Rivaille himself leads attacks on the ones who still come through, letting what he can’t kill be picked off by the younger soldiers.

They fight, and they fight, and there’s no doubt they’re close to defeat.

Rivaille can feel the adrenaline of it, the sense of failure that fills him. It’s not as horrible as he imagined it might be. It only spurs him on.

He’s killed what’s left of the Germans who spill through, and what’s left in the courtyard outnumber their men entirely. He sees, however, nothing but Nazi uniforms covering the ground. He counts off again, finding every man.

Every man except Erwin.

His heart beats fast, choking up his throat and pulling vomit along with it. He still fights, still shoots, but his eyes are searching the chaos for him.

And he doesn’t spot Erwin, but he spots something worse.

Pierre is barreling towards the door of the Ailes. Cloaked in heavy black and still wearing his white armband to discern him as a Resistance soldier. He carries a Nazi gun, same as the other Nazis, and it’s no doubt been given to him by the very soldiers they’re fighting.

“How did he get through?” he shouts. The Germans around him fall like rag dolls. The gun fire is prevailing, and perhaps the defeat he feels is imminent is not on the horizon after all.

But he still feels sick, with his feet pulling towards the door of the Ailes where Pierre disappears inside. As he runs he checks what’s left of his bullets and finds that there’s only two shots left for him to take. One by the door, one Nazi killed. One bullet left.

Inside it is silent.

The furniture is gone, but the shift of the sun keeps the light from spilling in the front door. So the place is dark, and the lights are off apart from what’s still functioning on the stage. He moves cautiously, with his skill in keeping quiet serving him well enough to make it into the main part of the club without making a single sound.

He looks at the heavily shadowed cavern of the theatre and when he turns into the room and disappears into one of the unlit corners, he hears a voice.

“Rivvy you’re here aren’t you?”

Even the smallest hairs on his skin stand at attention.

“Rivvy you hate me now don’t you? You little fucking bastard." He laughs. “You’re going to die together. Hopefully, that will make you happy. Since the life I provided for you apparently did not.”

He darts his eyes over the empty spaces, hoping that they will adjust to see what’s lurking in the darkness.

“Erwin you can come out now and claim your prize. You’ve won.”

Rivaille freezes, realizing why Pierre had been running inside. He had been following Erwin. He thinks of the situation that would cause Erwin to run and not stand his ground.

“Come now, commander. If you don’t nurse that arm you’ll bleed out.”

He had been injured.

“The both of you are fools you know. You could have had everything you both wanted and you gave it all away for each other. You could have been alive to see the war won, commander.”

Rivaille moves, stepping lightly on the floorboards with booted feet. The shafts of light shine against the walls and pick up the red wallpaper. He steps underneath one, and over one, each movement like a death sentence.

He’s close to the bar when he finally spots Erwin.

“And you Rivaille. I could have given you anything, you could have lived the life you'd always wanted. Do you remember when we were boys and all you wanted was an afternoon tea just like how you had with your dear mama? And you begged me for a tea cup, only to break it before you even had a sip. I should have known then.”

Erwin’s eyes are closed, chest moving up and down with pained effort. Rivaille can see the blood coming from his arm to paint his shirt entirely red. There’s a slash in the fabric at his bicep, and above it a make-shift tourniquet made from his belt. He looks up at Rivaille, eyes just as blue even in the dark, and shakes his head.

Rivaille ignores him and ducks behind the bar.

The wound is comprised of two injuries, a bullet hole and a knife wound that splits it open. The bullet is pulled already from the gash, but it still appears angry and red, the whiteness of bone in the mess of flesh.

“You can’t hide forever.”

Erwin grabs the back of Rivaille’s head and pulls him in close so he can speak right against his ear. His words are near silent, but Rivaille still hears him.

“I have no ammo left, Rivaille.”

Rivaille leans away, looks him over and holds up one finger before pointing to his gun. Erwin pulls him back in.

“There’s a bottle of alcohol to my right. Take it, put your handkerchief inside, and light it. Shoot your gun so he knows to come near and then throw.”

Pierre’s voice snaps, “Rivvy I love you. I loved you. And I protected you.”

Rivaille grabs the bottle.

“I should have just left you to die. Your father wanted you dead. I'm sure your mother did too once you ruined her life by falling out of her.”

Opens it, kerchief stuffed inside.

“Everyone wanted you dead. Our whole outfit hated you. They called you a little whore and I had to fight them off from taking what they wanted from you. I should have just let them have their way.”

The lighter ignites at Erwin’s hand. Their faces both illuminate in the glow of the small flame. Rivaille looks him in the eye, and Erwin stares back.

“I should have just let you fucking _die_.”

He fires his gun out from the side of the bar and like a rat, Pierre takes the bait immediately.

There’s a satisfying moment of eye contact before Rivaille throws the bottle at the man he used to love. Catharsis, revenge, retribution. Pierre’s stare turns to fear when he sees the flame fly towards him. It engulfs him in a moment, along with the old wooden floor he stands on, and his screams fill the room.

Rivaille refuses to look away as he disappears through the fall of fire that licks the beams of the ceiling. The crackling sound of wood giving way and the shouts of Pierre fading away into the roar of the blaze.

“Rivaille,” Erwin says. He’s standing then, holding his wounded arm in his other as he leans on the bar. It catches too, and all too quickly they’re cornered by the flames. Rivaille stands, and gets close to Erwin in the rapidly decreasing space they have to stand.

Erwin puts a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in closer. Around them the theatre burns, pulling down the red wallpaper and curling up the scarlet curtains.

“Follow me,” he commands. He keeps hold of his arm, and kicks down the section of the burning bar until it falls. The sudden collapse extinguishes the fire around them, and towards the end he can see where an opening is formed.

They run, while their lungs threaten to burn and their skin blisters at the abuse of the flames. They run, with heavy ash filled coughs and loose light heads from the smoke. They run, and Rivaille feels raw. Erwin struggles to move, and Rivaille pulls him into his arms, despite being too small to carry him. But he drags him, against the pain of his arm and the shouts that should be coming from his mouth, a lack of a reaction that puts fear into him like nothing else he's ever felt before.

Outside they find the Allies waiting for them. The courtyard is covered in bodies and their men are carried away in stretchers by women in white outfits. He's holding Erwin up, the smoke covered sun too bright in his eyes.

Rivaille shouts despite the sting in his throat. "Get him in on a stretcher! Now!"

A small base of operations is made two streets across, and they and their men are treated for injuries. Erwin’s saliva is black, his face gaunt, when they pull him away from Rivaille for treatment. But he watches from afar, as Erwin is spoken to by a soldier with the United States flag sewn into his shoulder.

Erwin’s eyes are barely open, but he can find them under those eyelashes, falling back to him.

He lies, himself, on a cot provided by a nurse pretty enough to be an actress. She cleans the cut on his cheek he didn’t know he had, and pours water into his mouth against his will.

“How pleased are you that the German’s surrendered?” she asks casually, her bedside manner flawless.

He is too preoccupied with them taking Erwin into another room.

"They surrendered?" he asks, needing clarification as the comment sinks in. He speaks French to her, and she looks confused.

Just before sundown, while he can’t find sleep as he was told, he is found by Erwin again. His arm is in a sling, and his body cleaned enough to show the cuts and bruises on him like paint on a white canvas.

“They didn’t cut your arm off. I was worried about that, you’d look stupid with just a little stub,” Rivaille says in greeting. “Then I got to thinking just who the hell would wipe your ass. I figured it would be me, but…”

“Rivaille,” Erwin’s stare is creepy as ever. “Come upstairs. I’d like to speak with you alone.”

They climb up in silence, and when Rivaille expects him to stop on any of the floors with the other men, he lets himself be lead up to the rooftop. From there they can see the city, the burning Ailes nothing more than a pillar of smoke.

“I guess it’s about time that club was really gone for good.”

Erwin sighs, “The fire is out now. Not much to be salvaged below, but they expect the flats above will be alright in the end.”

Rivaille nods, “It’s a good thing you don’t live there anymore.”

“Rivaille, they didn’t find his body. The back door was opened and they expect he must have gotten out.”

He doesn’t look at Erwin, afraid of what his expression might give away. Instead he plays with the knife in his hand, tosses it between the two. “Fucking weasel. I don’t expect any less.”

“But you did do it, Rivaille. Even if you didn’t kill him.”

He lets out a short laugh, “He’s like a cockroach. He’ll only die when he’s good and ready. But he'll hide. If the Paris is really free of the Nazis he'll be hunted. He made a lot of enemies.”

He knows he’s being calm, being numb, but it doesn’t feel that way to him. In the silence he turns to look up at Erwin, and sighs as if he’s bored with the subject.

“And so did I. So the next opportunity we have we're leaving."

Erwin raises his eyebrows slightly, “This is your home.”

“I’m not sentimental enough to care about something as stupid as that.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter where we go, _soldat_. You can decide.” His hand snakes out, finds Erwin’s arm and pulls him down into a kiss despite the ache in their bones.

"And you'll just follow?" There's a smile on Erwin's lips when he asks. The answer goes unsaid, but the question does not go unanswered.

Slowly they can hear the shouting build, from below, from out in the distance. The news of victory was spreading. Freedom. Finally. It was like a sigh, and Rivaille could feel it releasing from his own chest. Pierre might still be free, and they might still need to run from the city like fugitives, but something larger occupied him. Something he couldn’t identify.

His mind went to Nana, to Mike, to Hange. To Erd and Oluo and Gunther and Petra. He hoped that they knew. That they felt the peace. Yes, the peace. That was the name for it.

He is what he is lieu of what he was, to exist as the the back drop for the larger scene of what there is meant to be. And he feels at peace.

Standing above the city he looks down, where smoke billows through the sliver thin crevices of buildings and colors the sky a dingy orange blush. There is a thrum among it, and he feels it in his palms, where the weapon, where Erwin, pulses back in response.

Erwin looks ahead, not at the crumbling streets and sounds of celebration from the people below. His eyes remain at the horizon, where the sun is losing the battle with the sky and slides behind the borders of what he can see.

Rivaille loves him. The clarity of the thought goes unquestioned.

He was never meant to. Rivaille wasn’t ever meant to be alive at all. But despite all odds, he is.

He is.

He is a hundred different versions of himself shed and redressed to fit the occasion, the crowd, the scene, the score.

It isn’t that he is a purer version of who he truly he is with Erwin. He thinks, that perhaps he is who he wants to be, not who he ought to be for once. That spectrum of his heart shifting into courage, the configuration of his body into strength, the sharpness of him, the capacity for good. He reflects Erwin back to him, and he wonders if Erwin can see what parts of himself exist in the Rivaille he’s come to fall in love with.

He was never meant to.

He is.

“I don’t know what it’s like to not have something to fight for. I suppose we’ll be as free as we like now,” Erwin says.

“The war isn’t over yet,” he replies.

Stars are hazy in the twilight above them and Rivaille looks at the city illuminate in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -In August 1944 Paris was liberated by the week long efforts of the Resistance and the arrival of the Allies in the city. Over 1,000 Resistance and Free French gave their lives.  
> -Pierre Loutrel was, of course, a real individual who lived through the intense war crimes trials post-liberation. He turned back to his life of crime, starting a new gang, and suffered a painful death after a robbery gone wrong in November 1946.  
> -While Paris took time to recover after the liberation, it's likely that Rivaille and Erwin would return to the city that they found each other in, due to it's large homosexual community.

**Author's Note:**

> As always you can find me here: http://infinitygauntlets.tumblr.com/
> 
> The playlist of songs that inspired this story can be found here: http://infinitygauntlets.tumblr.com/post/94021942159/infinitygauntlets-ailes-de-la-liberte-a-mix-of


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